


Carnival of rust

by DeadPoet, drakendottir



Series: Boulevard of Broken Dreams [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Incredible Hulk (2008), The Incredible Hulk (Comics), The Incredible Hulk - All Media Types
Genre: All hail the Thornton Squad!, Angst, Banner is a creepy bastard, Bromance, Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Bruce Banner has mental issues, Bruce ships Clintasha, Clint Barton is scared of medical, Clint Barton suffers from survivor's guilt, F/M, Gen, Hulk is adorable and a monster, Hulkeye - Freeform, Humor, M/M, Multi, Noone expects the russian inquisition, Past Bruce Banner / Betty Ross, Past Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Plotbunnies are called Feelings and Mr Cuddles, Slow Build, Tony Stark and cameras, Tragic Romance, everyone has daddy-issues, reeeeeeeally slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:44:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 172,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1223404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadPoet/pseuds/DeadPoet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/drakendottir/pseuds/drakendottir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Bruce Banner ever wanted was to belong, but now that he actually does, he realizes he's putting people he cares about at risk by his pure existence. In the meantime, Clint Barton struggles with guilt and trauma, unable to find his way back to the man he always wanted to be. When their troubled pasts catch up with them, will the two Avengers be able to help each other out? Or will their fragile new friendship be shattered just like everything else?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Learning to fly

**Author's Note:**

> We realized there are far too few fanfics out there that really highlight our favourite bromance couple, Bruce Banner and Clint Barton, so we decided to put our heads together and write one. This is going to be rather long-ish and it's still a work in process, so if you have problems with that, maybe it's best if you wait until it's all finished. All Bruce Banner-chapters will be written by DeadPoet, all Clint Barton-chapters will be written by Drakendottir. We're still figuring out what to do with the mixed ones - that's gonna be tremendous fun.
> 
> There's going to be childhood-issues, Dr-Who-Sessions, bonding, breaking and shrinks noone wants to see.
> 
> Also a short warning: There will be extensive amounts of swearing, messed-up AIs, mention of (presumed?) major character death, mentions of sex, drugs and violence and also some references to fathers beating the crap out of their kids and those kids having to cope with their messed-up childhoods as adults. So... there's that.  
> And there will be no slash. Except for bantering between Bruce and Tony, but well. It's Tony. There's sex in him asking for a cup of coffee.  
>  **Update (March 2, 2014):** There will also be some sort of slashy, mostly creepy and disturbing one-sided affection. Don't worry, there will be separate warnings above each chapter that might be filled with graphic or non-graphic violence, non/con etc. So you won't have to read any of that if you don't want to.  
>  **Update (March 8, 2014):** Alright, alright...there will be slash. Probably a lot. It will need time to get there (slow build is an understatement) but Bruce was just so SAD and he looked at us and well...he wants Clint, he may get Clint. So yes. It might be tragic, it might be hillarious, it might be a bit fucked up because Bruce is Bruce and all that jazz, but yes. This is officially slash now.

  
** Prologue: Learning to fly ** __

_I'm learning to fly but I ain't got wings_  
 _Coming down is the hardest thing_  
 _I'm learning to fly around the clouds_  
 _But what goes up must come down_  


****

****  


Carnival in Washington D.C. | 15 years ago

**I**   


He was late. Oh, he was so late. He was _screwed._ If he didn’t get in there, like, yesterday or at least right now, Swordsman would be _pissed_. And rightfully so. Stupid tourists. Stupid flu that had taken over what felt like half of the damn carnival. Normally, the act that Clint appeared in was but to the middle of the show, providing the climactic high point - but tonight, they were the openers, which meant for Clint that he had been forced to do his usual work in about half the time he usually took to do it, and warm up whilst doing so. Meaning, he hadn’t had time to warm up properly and he already resented the fact that he hadn’t had time for his usual last-minute sparring with Swordsman. And on top of all that, he was still _late_. Any moment now, the bell would sound to announce ‘Doors!’, the visitors would rush into the big top and the show would begin. Luckily though, Clint was slim and small and fast on his feet. He darted through the crowd that stood in his way, a dainty little whirlwind of a boy, too small for his age but still exactly the right size for his purple tricot. What he lacked in strength, he made up for in speed. Obviously, the young woman he bumped into violently thought exactly the same thing. He only heard a startled little shriek, “OH, BRUCE!”, accompanied by some splashing sound - a few drops hit his hand and he licked them off while he ran, _hmm, coke_ \- and off he was, quicker than he could cry out “Sorry, Ma’am!”, vanishing behind a group of young mothers and their children, darting into the gap between _Cindy’s Cotton Candies_ and the raffle ticket booth. He dove in the back yard just in time before his co-artist, Swordsman, could throw a frenzy. “Where the ‘ell ‘ave you been, kiddo?” the middle-aged man asked with his unmistakable French accent, but Clint just shrugged and grinned up to the half-giant, whose brown eyes were but fiery dark holes underneath the bushy greyish eyebrows. Although Clint knew that he likely was in trouble already, he felt a cheeky urge coming over him, pushing back any sense of fear or shame or rationality before it could take over. He had never been one to be subservient towards authority figures, even if he liked them like he liked Jacques DuQuesne. “Come on, big guy, it’s not like I’ve ever not shown for a gig, right?” he smiled as broadly and innocently as he could. Swordsman snarled at him, but he looked both amused at Clint’s cockiness. He had always liked that the boy stood up for himself and took life the easy way. 

Drum roll, flashing lights, exciting kids in the crowd shrieking in their mothers’ ears… and their ringmaster did not waste any more time to announce the opening act. “Laaaadies and Gentlemeeeeeen, welcome to the Carnival!” Clint’s eyes flickered over to his brother Barney, who stood in the shadows, ready to watch his performance through a little gap in the red-and-yellow curtain, like he did every single night as if his observant eyes would make Clint any safer. They exchanged a short, but whole-hearted little smile, while Clint pushed his two daggers into their sheaths. And then the two performers stepped through the back door and the arena devoured them with its flashlights and the music and the cheers from the crowd and oh, all those smells: Sand and sweat and horse-dung and excitement. “For you tonight, the Invincible Swordsman and his fearless young apprentice - Daggerboy!” Clint danced through the arena, right by his teacher’s side, waiting till Swordsman had sweepingly flipped over for the first time, before they both somersaulted in perfect simultaneity, side by side. At age twelve, ‘Daggerboy’ was a particularly pretty kid, far more child than teenager, blond curls swinging and blue eyes sparkling proudly. He knew about his looks and he knew what they did to the women in the crowd, as he offered them a particularly angelic, innocent smile that was only disturbed by the missing front tooth that he had lost in this very morning’s training round. This smile, charmingly haunting, was his livelihood, the smile and the blond curls and the hard work he had put into learning the dance of swords. He was far from being perfect, however, as Jacques DuQuesne, the Invincible Swordsman, got never tired of reminding him. Three years of training had made Clint’s joints flexible and his slim muscles stringy and firm, but even if he had developed into a promising young acrobat, his sword-fighting still lacked the certain genius that made DuQuesne’s act one in a million and for a truly fearsome-looking opponent, he would probably never be tall enough. Still, the two artists gave the audience their money’s worth, spinning and dancing and fighting as though they were trying to take each other’s life. More than once, the more easily startled ladies gasped for air as Clint managed to escape DuQuesne’s swift blows by but a hair’s breadth. Fortunately, none of them were paying explicit attention. _Tourists._ Blind like owls in broad daylight - luckily, because like all good exhibition fighters, Swordsman and his “Daggerboy” never cared much for completely choreographed fights. They knew full well that a sound choreography was a way to play it safe, but also the easiest way to look extensively boring whilst doing so. The only better thing to do was to practice together, day and night, to be able to anticipate your opponent’s next move because you were just that familiar with his style and his abilities and you knew that he would not try to surprise you, even if he did use feints and tricks and acrobatics in order to win.

There was one move that Clint got wrong. One silly little mistake, not even worth mentioning in training, but almost fatal during the show, when they were using sharp weapons to make the fight look even more daring. One moment, the boy was spinning, jumping into a back handspring, the next he almost lost his balance when DuQuesne’s blade got in contact with his upper left arm, grazing it and leaving a bloody mark behind. Clint fell back on his feet, stumbled for a second and had enough quick-wittedness to make a dumb expression - causing the stupid audience to laugh out loud. Most people didn’t see the small trickle of blood that melted in his ripped, purple tricot - for the first time, Clint was actually glad for the girlish colour he had resented as soon as Swordsman had given the outfit to him. 

DuQuesne had enough presence of mind to end the uneven combat hastily after that and go on to the knife-throwing part of his act, making sure Clint could not screw up any more because of his injury. But even when his teacher smiled towards the people around them, ‘Daggerboy’ felt his anger and he knew, there were some pretty nasty training sessions coming up. 

His arm burned like hell, but he had been through a lot worse in his life. He had had his bones broken, his back whipped, his rips kicked in and his flesh burnt as his father used him for an ashtray. The small cut was uncomfortable; Swordsman’s hard, disappointed eyes were far worse, however. They almost made him cry. Clint worshipped DuQuesne. He was Bartons hero, the father Clint had chosen instead of the bastard who had conceived him. Failing him was like a betrayal for all the time and effort DuQuesne had spent training his little apprentice, at least it felt that way. 

Normally, Clint Barton excelled at a carnie’s life. He was tireless in training, fearless as an acrobat and splendid whenever the spotlight needed him to be. But after his mishap, he yearned for the show to finally end. Styling and smiling and waving his burning, useless joke of an arm around for the tourists had never before felt this hard. He got it over with, somehow, without them noticing that something was off and somersaulted out of the arena as if he’d never even heard of the word ‘pain’. It was only behind the curtain that he gave out an unhappy little ‘Ow’.

“He hit you, didn’t he?” Barney was quicker at his side than Clint could mask the painful expression on his face. “I knew it! I knew it the moment I saw you flinch. You never flinch. And he made you stay out there for the entire show!” - “It’s nothing,” Clint told his elder brother as bravely as he could. “Just a cut. I’ve had…” _… worse_. He stopped, didn’t want to talk any more, never ending his sentence. They merely exchanged a look, that sad little look that told the other one _‘yes, we’ve been through hell together. But we lived. So let’s just… shut up about it already, right?’_  
They didn’t need any more words. Barney just nodded and threw Clint a bunch of keys. “Med kit. Second drawer to the right. I’ve got to feed the big cats, Trick Shot’s got the flu so they’re moving up the acts. But I can come after and help, if you need some.” - “Nah, I’m fine,” Clint lied convincingly and Barney pretended to believe him. He was great that way, never pushed his little brother into admitting his weaknesses. If Clint didn’t manage on his own after all, Barney would just come along later no matter what they had agreed on, patch him up without another comment, and never speak of it again. At least not until it was time to fight over who’s turn it was to do the laundry or clean the trailer or muck out the elephants’.

Clint caught the keys in midair and Barney grinned at him. “Nice catch, _Crumbs_ , for a half-cripple.” - “Nice toss, for someone who can’t aim if his life depends on it.” For a moment, it looked like they would engage in an actual fisticuff, then Barney stepped back, still grinning. “Sorry, cats,” he reminded his brother. “Yeah right. Second drawer, to the right.” - “Don’t forget it’s your turn to do the zebras tonight. You’ve got about half an hour” - “Got it.”  
 _  
The zebras. Right._

It had been a good show, despite it being so short tonight. Most circus artists had put in some more tricks than usual, but they could not entirely make up for their sick comrades. At least Clint was on zebra-duty, which meant that he was done with his work when the bell sounded for one last time - all out and over - and the audience spilled out of the big top as if they were paid for speed, drowning the carnival with their voices and footsteps and sheer mass, rushing to the booths in order to get their hot beverages and to play and shoot at easy targets and to litter anything but the back yard - the enclosed little space that artists and animals had for themselves, a different world within the carnival, separate as if it were an own dimension, or at least it ought to be. Tourists back here next to always meant trouble, they could even mean danger, because only giffies (townspeople) were stupid enough to enter the elephant cage just to see the majestic animals up close. This was where the carnies relaxed, where they secluded themselves from their livelihood. A private sphere, surrounded by the huge public sphere. Some years past, the blond boy called ‘Daggerboy’ now had been one of the giffies, pleading his parents for some more ice-cream or for a chance to have another look on the tigers. But Clint had been kicking sawdust for three years now and the excitement of the carnival had worn off into everyday life. 

Simultaneously to the carnival, the back yard too started to fill with people, tired out from the show and, in Swordsman’s case, angry as hell about their co-artists clumsiness. Clint heard him coming before he could see him and decided in a matter of two seconds that he did not want any trouble, not right now, even if it was justified. He didn’t hesitate for too long. He had always been a good climber, as an acrobat, however, he had learned some even better moves than the old trees in the orphanage garden hat ever been able to teach him. Within seconds, the blond boy had snuck into the zebra cage, petted one of his striped friends until it got calm and climbed on top of it in order to reach for the upper bars. From there, pulling himself up and bestriding the cage was easy for someone this slim and flexible. 

He stood up and started to walk about. Right now, right here, he was in his element, balancing over the carnival’s rooftops, strolling about as an invisible flaneur. His sharp eyes caught every detail, rejoiced in the chaos below that he did not have to be a part of. He enjoyed being on top of everyone else, having the perfect angle for surveillance, being out of sight and overseeing everything at the same time. A soft wind sprang up, cleansing the evening of the sounds and smells from underneath just as the vanishing sun stole the last colours of Clint’s surroundings. He had the evening off (a rare luxury) and he knew that Barney, unlike the parents most kids down there had to drag along, would not wait for him, neither with dinner nor with a strict ‘you have to be in bed now, Clint’-attitude. Live and let live, that was their credo. Besides, Barney probably was not home yet, either, enjoying a chat with some of the little people or the boss elephant man or helping out with the re-setting of the arena. Clint found a nice little place to sit and watch the people below, took out an apple he had stolen from the zebras - they were his friends and probably did not mind much - and waited for the crowd to leave, the music to stop and the cookhouse to open. Up here, he had a good chance to escape Swordsman’s attention until his teacher was all but stupidly drunk and had forgotten all about Clint’s little mishap during the show. Finally, some peace and quiet took over the deserted carnival, only disrupted by the one or other song, laughter and talking. Clint decided it was time for dinner and he made his way over the cages, balancing on bars, jumping from one cage to the other like a particularly meddlesome little ape, sometimes crawling on all fours, other times standing upright for a moment, just enjoying the relative peace of his unchallenged kingdom on top of the carnival.

He had almost surrounded the darker, less populated area behind the big top that was exclusively reserved for trailers and cages, when he heard a familiar voice. Nosy as he had always been, the twelve year-old lay down on his belly, sliding closer to the edge of the trailer he was currently on. Nobody liked a spy, he knew that, of course. Nobody liked kids who pried in someone else’s affairs. But he had never minded taking a little risk. Clint loved secrets, as long as he got to know them. Closer and closer he got to the edge and the closer he got, the more he could hear. One of the men was speaking with an only too familiar French accent, it was this voice that had awoken Clint’s curiosity. The other one he had never heard before, he was sure of that. None of the carnies. A giffy. He was doing most of the talking, but then, Clint could hear Swordsman again and the sound made him shiver. Swordsman, one of the strongest, fiercest and most independent people he knew, was sobbing. Pleading for someone to make it stop. Fascinated and scared at the same time, the scrawny boy robbed forward, stuck his head out and watched the scenery with wide eyes. He didn’t fully understand what he was seeing, mainly because it was dark and he was too far away, but there was a stranger, perching over Swordsman’s unmoving body, and he had some sort of flask and he spoke with a silent, sweet voice, as if he was just sweet-talking. And Swordsman shivered and cried silently and begged him to stop, and the man stood up and turned around and Clint saw that something was off about Swordsman’s chest. The stranger put the flask away and Clint leaned forward and tried to read what it was the man had written on DuQuesne’s skin, but he couldn’t make it out, not in the dark, he only heard his mentor’s tears and he was scared, he was scared of the man with the soft voice and the cold eyes and the smile that tore through his nerves because it was _off_ , something was wrong about it, it was a fake smile, a cold smile, a snake’s smile.

It was only then that Clint realized his mistake. He had been leaning forward, trying to see, trying to understand what was spoken in this soft, sweet voice, but he had leaned on his cut arm and it was tense after an evening of climbing, it hurt and it was trembling and then, suddenly, he knew not how, he wasn’t on top of the trailer any more, he had slipped and he fell, fell - fell.

**II**

Bruce didn't know what to think of carnivals and other spectacles like that. Quite frankly he didn't see the point. There were animals which should have been free in Africa, happily getting extinct, being hunted for their teeth or fur or just for fun. It didn’t seem to be much worse a fate than being here, living in cages too small to breath in and being gaped at by nine-year-olds.  
There were also clowns - whom Bruce didn’t care for. They frightened him most of the time. And last but not least there were a bunch of people doing pretty idiotic stuff that could kill them all. For nothing. Why should he want to watch something like that?  
But Betty got that glow in her eyes whenever she saw the poster, so Bruce had bought the tickets and decided, that he would just be watching her if the show became too boring to bear. If it made Betty happy, then he could manage a visit at the circus.  
Bruce was twenty-one and just shy of getting his first doctorate. He was working at a military facility and it used to be...difficult. Bruce hadn’t expected anything else. He could do  difficult, hadn’t known anything else in his life. People didn’t tend to like him and that was ok with him. He liked working by himself and being good at what he was doing. He didn’t need more. So he worked and tried to avoid any kind of confrontation. Sometimes that worked out and sometimes it didn’t, but he didn’t care about a bunch of bruises more or less. It was okay, difficult, but okay.  
And then Betty had danced into his life and with Betty everything was easy. Bruce had never been more confused by anything.  
Oh, the situation itself wasn’t easy. Not by a long shot. General Ross hadn’t been a fan before. Now he outright hated him. Bruce knew that. Ross didn’t like his daughter choosing a scrawny, confused and shy scientist over some alpha-male out of his stock of soldiers. Ross made sure that Bruce knew. Bruce still nursed a migraine from the last ‘talk’ they had shared.  
But it was alright. He wasn’t afraid of Ross, never had been, which might had been part of the problem.  
Betty herself...Betty was easy. With Betty it was easy for Bruce. Betty was nineteen and a second-term-student at college. She wore blue summer dresses and sang when she was happy. She took Bruce’s arm when he was working too much again. They went for milkshakes and their feet touched under the table. Bruce looked at her and smiled and meant it. Betty took his hand and Bruce was happy, deliriously so. They sat in the lab, ate pizza, Betty stealing his pepperony and Bruce would ask himself how she was doing that. She didn’t even have to try. Bruce kissed her fingers, her lips and he laughed when she laughed and he thought her smile the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.  
And so he was here. Colourful lampions swang over their heads, it smelled of stale popcorn, soda and muck. Betty was happy and Bruce held her hand. He didn’t want to be anywhere else, even though all the people made him a little anxious.  
They heard an elephant and Betty laughed and got even closer to him.  
“You have to serenade me, you know?“  
“Pardon me?“  
Betty smacked his arm and tried to imitate him – she sounded like a wounded gorilla. “ _Pardon me._ Bruce, I swear, you stepped right out of an Austen novel. Which is why you have to serenade me. It is known, that a gentleman has to woo his lady-friend with sweet lullabies when there is starlight and… well. I _demand_ to be wooed!“  
“You demand, do you?“ Bruce grinned and leaned in to steal a kiss but Betty just laughed and took a step back. Bruce shrugged and looked a little bit helpless. He wanted his glasses back. He really didn't think that contacts did the trick for him. It was hard to hide behind contacts.  
“Ah, ah, ah...serenade me!“  
“You trank a slushy, didn't you?“  
“Maybe. Why?“  
“Because you are cute on a sugar-high but it is frightening, when you start demanding to be serenaded.“  
A clown stepped up, a trumpet in hand and started playing. Betty looked smug. Bruce felt a little bit humiliated. Apparently there were some circus-people who thought that they were funny or good entertainment. They probably thought him an easy target for embarrassment and they were damn right.  
Bruce shuffled his feet and then another clown stepped up and started playing the ukulele. They were good too. It was a disaster. He looked around, wrang his hands and looked for a way out of this mess. People had started cheering and clapping and Bruce really just wanted to run. Why did they have to do that? It had been nice and easy and… and Betty didn't look happy anymore. Bruce looked at her and she looked uncertain. She bit her lower lip which was oddly distracting but it was also a sign that she was unwell. She looked at him and her voice was apologetic when she said: “I am sorry, Bruce, I… let's just...“  
“ _When I'm lonely, well I know I'm gonna be_ ,“ He started singing without noticing and it was awkward and hoarse and he probably sounded like his voice were still in the making but it didn't matter, because Betty blushed a little and stopped looking so uncertain, so Bruce smiled, went to his knees and sang louder, 'cause it didn't matter that this right now wasn't him. He was never himself when he was with her and that was scary and wonderful and he wanted to be the best she could get and that was someone entirely different than Bruce Banner. “ _I'm gonna be the man who's lonely without you / When I'm dreaming, well I know I'm gonna dream / I'm gonna dream about the time when I'm with you…_ “  
When he got to the refrain, some other guests sang it with him and the trumpet-clown did a little solo and everything was better. Betty laughed and looked flushed and happy when the crowd disappeared and Bruce leaned in to get the kiss he had wanted. She tasted of sugar and nightwind and a little salty and he smiled.  
“Betty?“  
“Yes Bruce?“  
“Never ask me to serenade you again, please.“  
“Oh well, no. How could I? We could never again find such nice gentlemen to help you and – OH BRUCE!“ Some kid bumped into her and Betty lost her balance and the next moment Bruce’s shirt was one big coke stain. He tried to spot the kid that had done it, but he just saw a blotch of blond hair disappearing and he shrugged it off. „It's alright, really… not so chilly tonight. It will dry.“  
“And it will be RUINED! Oh ghosh, I am so sorry...“ She tried to make it better, patting her hands on it and a handkerchief, that was soaked within moments.  
Bruce let her be and then started humming. “So THIS is what I have to do to get you to touch me. Should have known I should have used sugar a long time ago.“  
Betty stared at him and then smacked his head. “You are an evil man, Bruce Banner...“  
“An evil man with a ruined shirt. RUINED I say! I have never owned a shirt as nice as this. I am quite sorry but you will have to pay me back. I accept kisses.“  
“Do you now?“  
“Yes ma’am.“  
She huffed and smiled and laid her hand against his cheek. “You are impossible, Bruce. Why are you not like this with anyone else?“  
“I didn't think you would appreciate me serenading other people.“  
“You know what I mean.” For a moment she looked deeply in thought, her one hand still at his cheek and the other on the coke stain that once had been his shirt. It was a nice feeling though - her hands were warm and the night just the right side of chilly to make him think, he could put his arms around her later and get away with saying it was to keep her warm. They’d both know the truth of course, but what did that matter?  
“I mean...you are funny and warm and open and little bit like a clown yourself. You’re witty. Damn, you’re witty…”  
“Thank you, I guess. I aim to please by overflowing with wittiness.”  
“Well, just with me. With everyone else, you’re..”  
She stopped and Bruce went very still. He hoped for the blond kid to return and to drop some popcorn on them or something but everything stayed the way it was, with the moonlight above and the sounds of laughing kids all around them.  
“Boring?”, he dared to ask. It came out flat and a little defeated. He hadn’t thought it would end this soon.  
“No. No, Bruce, that is not...argh, I don’t know what I’m trying to say!”  
“You’re trying to say, that it is not enough how I am with other people. That you don’t think we should be together if I am really like this and -”  
“NO!” She took his chin in her hand and made him come deeper, so she could look him in the eye. “Bruce Banner, listen to me: I love you. With all my heart. And I know that THIS is you, how you are right now with me. Sassy and witty and charming and a little bit embarrassed about everything but trying nonetheless. You are like a mix of Einstein and some late night comedian-talkmaster. With worse hair, so we’ll have to throw a hedgehog in the mix somewhere. I just don’t understand why you HIDE all that, when you are not with me. People would adore the ground you’re walking on instead of…” - “...pushing me on it?” Bruce smiled. It was a lopsided grin and he couldn’t help it. “You said you love me.”  
And that was that. The bell rang and got them to go inside and Bruce ignored the fact that Betty had tried to ask him why he was so different with her. He didn’t know, really. He just didn’t feel like hiding with her, he didn’t feel like the world was one big hostile place. Bruce and people, that never went well and he just… he wanted to keep a low profile, he wanted to keep out of trouble. He didn’t mind if people disliked him, he didn’t mind that he was the freak or nerd or something else and he sure didn’t mind when people beat him up or bad mouthed him. He LOVED it, when they just ignored him, forgot that he was even there. It was different with Betty, but it wasn’t that Bruce was different. It was her. And she was a light and hope and warmth and Bruce felt like he didn’t deserve it to be near her, but he let himself anyway. He gave himself a treat. If he could have her, everything would be alright. Allways.  
He didn’t pay attention to the show. He looked up, sometimes, made some rough estimates about trajectories in his head and then thought about something else again, stealing glances at Betty who sat there with an open mouth and round eyes. Bruce smiled, took her hand and when she beamed right back at him, he felt butterflies in his belly and he thought that yes, yes he would say it back, he would tell her that he loved her because it was the truth and because nothing could ever destroy this pure happiness he was feeling.  
When the show was over, Betty felt indeed a little bit cold, so Bruce gave her his jacket and then went away to buy her a cup of hot fruit juice. He had a little skip, walking back. He thought about how to tell her that he loved her. He should - probably - just do it veeeery casually. Like it was no big deal, like he would tell any family member. Well… The problem was, he always told them with a very grave voice. It always felt very important that they understood, that they knew and he didn’t say it very often. Mostly he just said it when they were looking worried about him.  
But it shouldn’t be grave and hard with Betty. She didn’t seem to like it when he got all earnest or sad or grave, even though his uncle and aunt adored her and wanted her to come visit soon.  
He lost track of thought, when he stepped around a trailer and saw Betty. She leaned against a wall and there was a guy in front of her, way WAY too close for comfort. He wore a costume and Bruce vaguely remembered that he had been in the show doing something that surely had been amazing and everything, but well. That was no way to give an autogramm and Bruce knew it.  
The guy said something in French that Bruce didn’t understand. He sucked at languages. He didn’t need them either way, English was the foremost scientific language so screw French.  
Betty answered him but it was in a very small, frightened voice. It didn’t sound like her at all.  
Bruce sped up and just ignored the guy when he got close. “Hey Sweetheart.” He gave her the cup and put an arm around her, so he was between her and the guy. “We have to hurry if we want to make it.”  
She just nodded meekly and tried to tag along. They turned and had taken two steps, when Bruce was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, Sir.”, he said without turning. His shoulders hunched and he tried to make himself smaller. He expected to be beaten and he didn’t like that feeling, but it was familiar and it would be over soon. “We just really have no time to chat. Your act was great, though. Really. Big fans.”  
“Well, if you are such great _fans_ your little lady friend should just grant me that kiss I have been asking for.” He grinned. Bruce got a sinking feeling in his chest. Behind him, Betty closed her hands around his arm. She was shaking. Badly so.  
“Sir… I’d really… we just want to go. We don’t want no trouble...”  
“Oh, you’re no trouble at all. Just step out of the way, boy.”  
Well, THAT sounded familiar. The boy-part at least. Bruce flinched and he tried to make himself smaller. He didn’t step away but he didn’t look up, either. He was expecting the punch. He expected that it would be just that fucking easy to go through him. It always had been. He was scrawny as hell, no strength to speak of and he… he had never been able to fight back against anything. Why bother? It didn’t help, it just made matters worse.  
It was okay to get beaten up. To get laughed at. Really, it was. He was used to it and he didn’t mind that much when it was just a beating, when it wasn’t like back in highschool. But this time it was different. This time it hurt.  
Bruce was flung aside. He landed on the cold ground, got mud in his mouth and started coughing. The guy laughed and Betty screamed his name. “BRUCE! Oh Bruce, are you alright, are you -”  
He rolled around, so she could see he was okay, but he had lost his contacts and blinked uselessly into the moonlight. Blood ran down his cheek, but it was nothing it was just blood. His heart was beating a fast drum, a really fast drum. He didn’t know what to do with that. It was a strange feeling that made breathing hard to bear.  
He tried to get up, but his legs were shaky, really shaky, like leaves in the wind and then it was too late anyway. He couldn’t see very well, but he did see that the guy put his arms around Betty and kissed her. Bruce could hear her fighting him to no end and then it was over and the guy laughed. “See? All I really wanted. Just a little taste. Now you kids hop along. Missy, try to find yourself a man.”  
He was gone and Betty helped Bruce up and then they were on their way. Bruce couldn’t say how they got home. He just knew that Betty didn’t say a word and was shaking beside him. She didn’t look at him, when she went inside her house and Bruce didn’t tell her that he loved her. 

It was much later, when the man returned to the scene of crime, so to speak. Banner looked around the carnival. It was pretty different to before. No lampions, no people laughing. At least not so many. The carnies were still up, some of them at least, and Banner didn’t have to look long for the one guy he was searching for. He propped his glasses up and grinned a little grin when he spotted the guy. Swordsman. He remembered him. Flashy. Really not so good, he even got his little sidekick hurt and that just wouldn’t do. One didn’t hurt no kids. No style. No moral.  
No fucking discipline.  
Banner could hear him singing drunkenly in french. Stupid language.  
He waited for the man to appear, then he started humming to himself. He only ever hummed one song: “ _Now I’m a believer, I couldn’t leave her if I tried…_ ”  
Such a nice little song and it did the trick. The man startled, turned around and looked his way. Banner stepped out of the shadows, grinned and fired.  
French guy looked down and stared at the little arrow that was stuck in his chest.  
“What...qu’est-ce que….” And with that, he just slumped backwards.  
Banner stepped closer, dropping the device right next to him. “You know...you people reaaaally seem to know how to knock out misbehaving animals. You just shouldn’t leave your equipment lying around for anyone clever enough to pick it up. Can you still hear me?” He snapped his fingers in front of the guy’s eyes and it seemed like he got a reaction. “Well, that’s nice. I’d hate to do this with you being unconscious. I do love a good crowd to appreciate my work. You might be able to relate, buddy.”  
He kneeled down and started opening the shirt of Mr Swordsman. “No, don’t worry, I don’t want that. Really, if I were up to that, I would choose a better looking bloke. One with manners. You don’t have no manners. Brucey felt pretty useless before. Useless in the sense off: Oh, daddy was right, I really oughtn’t be around in this world, taking up all that SPACE, it is fucking rude of me and someone better might come along and actually need it.” Banner patted the guys cheek. “You see: That is no train of thought I want to encourage. I firmly believe in the pursuit of happiness and it was going so damn fucking well. And then you swaggered along and ruined it and it will take FOREVER to get this better. You destroyed my timetable, buddy. I don’t like that kind of behaviour. And I reeeeeally think you should be taught a lesson.”  
He held up the phiole he was holding. “Now see, this is some very, VERY potent acid. Much too precious for the likes of you, actually, but I am feeling like making an exception. Just for you, buddy.” He pinched the man’s cheek, grinning like a maniac. One could see in his victim’s eyes that he was thinking along similar lines. “Well, I first thought about just melting your dick. Classic, you know? Gotta respect that. But then I thought: Uh...that could be deadly! I am no doctor, no Sir. I don’t know how that will end. But I do know that I don’t want no cops. If there will be cops on the other hand… Well. It’s not like someone will melt that thing off, before I get to it, hein? So I’ll do something a little bit more...creative. A warning, a reminder… see it as a gracious gift, yes?”  
And then he began to pour the acid on the man’s chest. He let it drop and sting and then applied the next drop. Banner was glad that the man couldn’t scream. He looked like it would be a real bother otherwise. A smell of barbeque started floating around, heavily and heavenly. Banner had to remind himself to get something to eat on his way home.  
“Please…” The swordsman finally managed to speak again. The word was strained and heavy with pain and tears. Banner looked down on him, mildly curious. “Stop it… please… I….”  
“You what?” Banner leaned forward and put his finger on freshly corroded flesh. The other man hissed. He didn’t have the strength for screams. Not yet. Banner drove his fingers deeper, forcing a sob from the man and then leant back. “I tell you ‘what’. You will never bother anyone like that again. You will not go after that nice couple because I can promise you: The next time I might be annoyed. I might really be downright pissed and I tend to get a little...edgy, when that happens, if you catch my drift?”  
He smiled the smile of something that might not eat you, but play with you. For hours.  
The swordsman nodded.  
“Well, that wasn’t that hard now, was it?” Banner grinned, patted his cheek and stood up.  
On the chest of the carnie were letters, burned into the flesh: _Child rapist._  
Banner was pretty sure the guy wasn’t going to find a willing participant for cuddling any time soon.  
He started humming again and turned around to go away and maybe get a nice hotdog on the way, when he heard a noise.  
It was a soft sound, but it made Banner edgy nonetheless. He didn’t want no witnesses, that just made things messy. So he went around the booth and then he saw it in the moonlight: Blond hair and a small body. Banner looked up, estimated from where the kid might have fallen. Kid.  
He puffed out his breath. Really. It could have been such a nice day. And now he would have to sleep without his hotdog. This wasn’t his field of expertise. 

Bruce blinked. His feet were cold and when he looked down, he saw them naked. Grass was there, too, and wasn’t that just funny? He looked up and saw the night sky and the moon and stars. It smelled like stale popcorn and barbeque. He was back at the carnival. Bruce put a hand on his face. Sleppwalking. Had to be it. Damn, he had thought that would have been over after the whole disaster at high-school and - there was a sound. Faint like a whisper, but it wasn’t a whisper. It was a sound of pain.  
Bruce looked around and then he saw the little boy, lying on the grass, not moving. He didn’t hesitate, but went down beside him. The grass bristled under his knees. He touched the boy very carefully, as if he might break. Bruce didn’t have a medical degree (yet.. he kinda planned to just pop some medicine in for the heck of it and because it seemed like he would go into radiation as a field of expertise. If he wanted to make everything better for people who were exposed to radiation, he needed a basic understanding of the human body. And biochemistry. Bruce supposed he would have three doctorates when he would be finally satisfied with his own education.)  
But what little he knew about first aid,  partially from being a good bigger cousin to Jen and a guy who used to get a lot of injuries, was sufficient to get a good idea about what was wrong with the boy.  
He looked up the booth and then down again. Well. They probably didn’t need to call the real medics for that. Bruce would have hated to tell them that yes, he sleepwalked for miles and miles…  
“Hey buddy.” He pushed some hair out of the boy’s face and his fingers came back bloody. “You shouldn’t do a stunt like that without a net, I thought you learned that?”  
The boy mumbled something that Bruce didn’t understand. “It’s alright, little bird, it’s gonna be alright. Look, can you follow my fingers with your eyes? Could you try that for me, please?”  
He didn’t answer, not really, but he looked up and blinked and his eyes followed Bruce’s fingers. Well then. No concussion, that was something. Bruce wouldn’t have been able to do something about that.  
On the other hand, the boy’s arm had been dislocated. It was a little sickening to look at, but Bruce was good in ignoring these things.  
“You really shouldn’t play bird, little one.” Bruce started singing under his breath, while his fingers found their place on the boys arm and behind the dislocated shoulder. “ _I am learning to fly / but I ain’t got wings / coming down….is the hardest thing_ ” At ‘the hardest thing’ he pushed and put the shoulder back where it belonged. The boy gave a startled cry and then sobbed silently. Bruce cradled him closer and pressed his face into the boys locks. He hadn’t want to hurt him but it had been necessary, every medic would have done the same and Bruce didn’t trust medics, they were drunk and stupid sometimes and they didn’t care about people. “Hush, now, hush.” He petted the boy’s hair. “It’s quite alright now, but you need to rest. Can you show me the way to your booth?”  
He carried him, although the boy probably didn’t want that, carried him to the kind of home you had at these places and knocked on the door. A boy opened. Older than he one in his arms, but probably still younger than Bruce. There were no parents to be seen.  
“He fell.”, was all Bruce said and then the other guy had a handful of bird-boy. “I checked him and he seems to be okay, but he should rest now and if he throws up, you need to find professional help, ok?”  
It was ok. So Bruce nodded, scratched his neck and then turned around. “Ahm...you wouldn’t mind showing me the way, would you? I am little bit lost, I have to admit.”  
He got home, eventually. His feet were cut and bruised and he was tired as hell but he felt oddly content. He didn’t know why. Perhaps because he had helped the boy. He might not be the strong one, someone who could fight for himself or his girlfriend, but at least he was able to help people. That made it a lot better.  
The next day his clothes smelled like barbeque and the nightly visit had faded, become a dream. Bruce Banner usually dreamt a lot worse, so he put it away in his mind and sometimes smiled at it.     
Three years later he had his doctorate in medicine, lived with Betty over their favorite pizza place and was as contend as he could be. He had a ring in his cupboard and was thinking about giving it to Betty.  
And then there was an experiment and a careless boy where there shouldn’t have been anyone and Bruce’s life got smashed and was no more.


	2. 1. Bulletproof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint hurts and is an ass about it, Banner is a silent creep, Tasha invents a new system of treating her severe bruising with heat, Thor still has trouble grasping everyone's full name, Tony is (for once) actually trying to be nice (yeah, right, what's up with that?!) and no one listens to Steve; or: Why Avengers debriefs tend to be less fun than you'd think.

  
  
**1\. Bulletproof**   


  
_I’m bulletproof, nothing to lose_  
 _Fire away, fire away_  
 _Ricochet, you take your aim_  
 _Fire away, fire away_  
 _You shoot me down but I won’t fall_  
 _I am Titanium_

Stark Tower, NYC | August 17, 2013

Every step was pain. Not that he cared much. It took a lifetime to get into the stupid elevator. Barton halfway expected JARVIS to nag in his ear after he had already told the hawk that everyone else was waiting for him upstairs. _Screw it. Let ‘em wait._ “Captain Rogers expressed his concern if you had checked in with the medical team yet, Sir.” – “Would I be here if I hadn’t?” _Great, Barton. Straight-face lie to the AI, real classy._ Though technically, it wasn’t a lie, just a rhetorical question. Yeah, of course he’d be here without clearance by medical. Who the hell needed those guys, anyway? He’d find a way to numb the pain later and everything else could just go screw itself. And fuckin’ Rogers and Tasha could just shut up about it because life was pain and he was fucking used to it and he was so sick of everyone telling him to take better care of himself as if he deserved to be healed or as if anyone actually cared if he lived or died or was able to dance through the night, as long as he’d be strong enough to pull a damn bowstring within time for their next OP. Their pseudo-caring was frustrating. Natasha’s, most of all, because with her, he almost believed she was being honestly concerned. In his own, complicated way, Clint loved Tasha. Well, love… love was for children and that was the version he’d tell himself before he’d go to sleep, because it was a lot easier that way and because he secretly knew that she would never consider him like that no matter how big a crush he developed on her. If you could call a four-years-lasting friend- and partnership (trusting each other with their lives and even with the one or other secret) a crush, that was. He just didn’t stand a chance, now even less than ever - after all, they’d started to hang out with a bunch of crazy ass superheroes and damn… he was just Clint Barton. _Hawkeye, okay. Wow._ So he had a cool carny-nickname that had stuck with him all these past years ever since he’d left his childhood home and had come work for SHIELD. _Circus freak turned spy. Great job, Barton._

He still lived in his dump of an apartment in Brooklyn, a cramped little place of just one room that was simultaneously the kitchen, the master’s bedroom, the living room and his training area. The bathroom was as teeny tiny as they got and Clint had seen his fair share of living accommodations throughout the years (ranging from sleeping under a bridge or in a trailer or at a military base in Kuwait up to the honeymoon suite at the Ritz in Berlin) to have an overall perspective. He didn’t mind this stuff; he didn’t mind simple living arrangements. Of course, luxury was all well and fine but at the end of the day, Barton was a pretty simple guy. His small place was poor, it was cramped and dark and in an apartment building run by the Russian tracksuit-mob and situated in a neighbourhood short only some car fires to be competing with a slum in Paris. But it was home. It was _his_ , his money, his hard work, as far as he could tell minimal SHIELD-surveillance and neighbours who knew him as Clint Seymour or just ‘plain ol’ Clint’, who met for barbeques on the rooftop every night and other than that minded their own damn business. No fan-girls, no fans whatsoever, actually. No fame. He didn’t need it and he didn’t want it. He preferred keeping a low profile. Even after the battle of New York, SHIELD had managed to destroy close to any footage that showed his or Natasha’s faces and that was a real blessing. No stalkers, no autographs he had to give in the streets. He could still work undercover. And he could stay in his little apartment overlooking a narrow, dark street, four stories up in a four story building somewhere in Bedford-Stuyvesant. He liked it there, never mind the bad neighbourhood or the lack of luxury. It reminded him of where he had come from and where he was going. He’d been born in his parents’ house in Iowa, brought up under the counter of his dad’s butcher shop, spending regular intervals at the local ER whenever he had once again ‘fallen off the tree’ or ‘down the stairs’ or ‘been in a nasty little bike accident’ ( _SUCH a clumsy boy…_ ) and parked in an orphanage when his drunk scumbag of a father finally managed to crash his car against a tree. He could have had a normal life, even after all that. There had been a couple who wanted to adopt him, the cute little blond-haired blue-eyed angel with the innocent smile and the overall sweet, trusting behaviour, even after the hell the seven-year-old had been through. But they didn’t want Barney. They freakin’ didn’t want to take in a rebellious dark haired, scrawny ten-year-old with a history of fighting his classmates and getting into trouble (never mind that half of the time, looking back, Clint had been just as responsible for those things with Barney purely rushing in to safe his lousy skin, Clint had only been better at charming supervisors with big eyes and a soft smile that made them believe butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth). So then they had just run away to join the carnival. Barney’s idea, Barney always had the best ideas back then, but Clint was the one who backed him up and followed and never once complained, not about the hard work and not about the dirty trailer and not about having to go to school under pretend names so that the police wouldn’t find them. They only had each other back then and they couldn’t stand the idea of being separated for life. _Funny how this things go sometimes…_

The best time of his entire sickening, stupid little life had been spent with his brother, who was but three years older than Clint, inside that rusty old trailer. The boys had loved it there. Sure, it was hard. Living without parents was hard. It was messy. They had to do things other kids their age would never have been allowed to do, probably also wouldn’t have wanted to do, like working full-time or learning how to cook or cleaning their own homes or mucking out the elephants’ stables. Most kids probably also never learned how to shoot an arrow so that it hit the bull’s eye, or how to be an acrobat, or how to talk to a hungry tiger so it didn’t eat you. But everything ended, even that life stopped eventually. Clint seldom thought back at how painful it had been to lose Barney, to find out that even his friends from the carnival could not be trusted. He left the past to itself, locked safely away someplace inside of him. Shit happened. Life went on regardless. What didn’t kill you, only made you stronger. He had a thousand of these sweet little lies and he’d murmur them to himself when he was staring in the mirror and wondering how the hell he managed to look himself into the eyes after everything he’d done, everything he’d become. Where was the guilt? The shame? He should have minded more about every dead, he should have been more troubled than he was. The little kid back at the carnival would have been. Then again, that little kid had lost everything because of naivety and in the end, he had ended up a criminal. And worse. He had ended up being him. What was it Tasha always told him? _Stop relying fully on your feelings, Clint._ Yeah. Maybe she was right. _Or whatever._

The best thing that had ever happened to Clint Barton had been a SHIELD operative by the name of Phil Coulson. Any other specialist wouldn’t have thought twice about throwing that little piece of garbage back into the trash can he found him in, or in other words, toss the young vigilante into prison with all the other criminals and let him rot there for the next ten to fifteen years. Nineteen years old, fair hair and steel-blue eyes and a well-trained, yet still dainty, slim body, not to mention almost girlishly pretty, soft facial features… Not hard to imagine how popular Barton would have been in prison. With Phil Coulson, however, there had been a choice. ‘Go get yourself fucked for the next decade or even longer, or come and work for SHIELD.’ Well, not much of a choice after all. Get raped by a bunch of brutal thugs or get screwed over by the government. For a second, Clint had even considered taking his smart-ass attitude and stuffing Coulson’s proposal back into his only slightly smiling face; _fuck him, fuck all of them_. Then, luckily, Phil had given him time to consider. Make a decision. Wasn’t much of a decision after all. Not for a carny who couldn’t possibly bear the thought of being contained for years.

So, SHIELD. Spy training. Assignments. Some good, some bad. Whoever believed the bullshit that SHIELD was the good guys and that with the good guys, everything was just fluffy and flower power and peachy happiness, hadn’t paid much attention. But in the end, it was better than it could have been. A lot better. Clint made friends. He made enemies as well. And on a particularly daring solo-mission in Budapest five years ago, he made a friend out of an enemy, who would turn up at SHIELD headquarters but a year later and declare she was adamant on defecting from Russia in order to join SHIELD. Her only condition: Be allowed to choose her own partner. That move, mused Clint, had been one hell of a choice. But it hadn’t been his and if it had been up to him, he probably would have told Natasha to go screw herself. After all, he had still been pissed off (embarrassed, more likely) that she had been able to screw him in Budapest. Some girl. Better than him even after he had caught her, handcuffed her to a chair and interrogated her. _Stop putting your trust in your feelings, Clint._ Yeah, well, it had been five years since Budapest. And he still hadn’t learnt that particular lesson. He probably never would and it would get him killed and he knew that in his last seconds, he’d hopefully remember Natasha, her mop of red hair and her sparkling green eyes and the soft brutality in this single lesson he had never managed to stick to, no matter how hard he tried. _Fucking moron, Barton._ But if he could actually hear her voice in his ears in those last few seconds, death probably wouldn’t be that bad, right? He had always loved Tasha’s voice.

So that was where he was coming from: Iowa, orphanage, carnival, SHIELD; a kid with a bow and a Russian ex-cold-war-spy for a partner. He also knew where he was going and his apartment always reminded him of that. He was going nowhere, because there was nowhere left to go. He had reached his destination, here, with SHIELD. He had lost people, good people, bad people, people whom he hated and people whom he loved and he had mourned for all of them, some more, some less. He had seen so many things, lived through so much, all in his short life of twenty-seven years. He knew he was stranded, stuck, finished. That was okay, though. He liked who he was. Most of the time.

Clint liked his apartment, too, the point being that whenever he was _being summoned_ to the Stark Tower for a debrief (and yes, you couldn’t call it anything else than that, Clint thought, while he waited for the elevator to reach its destination, a grim expression on his face and his dislocated shoulder in a sling he’d made from a torn-up old shirt he’d found in his locker), he had to fight the overwhelming urge to just run away because frankly, he couldn’t see how he belonged here. But he stayed, every single time, even if he wished he could just go home instead, he forced himself out of the elevator and into the meeting room, step by painful step. This had been their sixth shared mission since New York, sirens blasting and civilians screaming and so much destruction that Clint’s stomach had twisted and his blood had turned to ice. He was used to violence, to blood and guts and death, but he had never rejoiced in it and he had never been trained for the battlefield. His work up to this point had been all about stealth and precision and minimizing damage. Now they just rushed into any situation Fury threw at them, guns blazing, nuking any remaining red tape on their way. He hated red tape. But he hated chaos, blind destruction and open firefight even more.

This wasn’t him, this freak show, this so-called ‘team’ that had somehow stuck to the (even for carny-standards) impossible, idiotic name ‘The Avengers’, this wasn’t his home and it wasn’t his people. He felt completely out of his comfort zone with most of them. Tasha was okay, of course, having been his partner for four years now (he never counted the short intervals in between, when she had switched sides or partners – she had always returned for him, sooner or later, just as he had always been drawn back under her spell); but he could see why they’d invite someone like her. Shit, the girl was over sixty years old and still looked as if she were in her early to mid-twenties (and pretty damn gorgeously so) – and she packed a serious punch. Clint knew that from experience, he’d been on the receiving end of her fists more than once and apart from that one time in Budapest, when he’d had surprise on his side, she had always managed to get the better of him. Damn, even back in Budapest, she had been able to turn the situation to her advantage eventually. Because he hadn’t thought rationally, he’d felt and that was _stupid. Barton, you dummy…_ As he stepped into the room, the red haired spy just looked up at him, lifted one crooked eyebrow and looked back down to the paperwork she was going through. She had a mug of coffee in front of her, holding it with both her hands and Barton could see that some of her fingers were swollen and blue-ish, probably contused. Probably hurt like hell. Numbing the pain with heat instead of cold… interesting tactic. Maybe he’d try that later himself, after this poor excuse of a team meeting.

Tasha, however, wasn’t alone in here. There was Iron Man, the guy whose ego seemingly threatened to turn the elegant meeting room into a vacuum. It wasn’t enough that Tony Stark was a billionaire, playboy AND philanthropist, obviously – he had to be a freaking _genius_ , too. Clint wasn’t exactly poor, he managed. But he was no billionaire. He was good with the ladies but guess what – he’d never had sex with more than one girl at the same time. Mostly out of practical reasons, he liked to focus on one target at a time and most SHIELD agents he’d slept with (yes, there had been a few) wouldn’t have tolerated him splitting his attention between them and someone else. And you didn’t piss off female SHIELD agents, especially not while your crutch was unprotected.

Clint remained standing right next to the door, having a look at his fellow teammates. Tony had slumped in one of the chairs, feet on the table and a cocktail in his hand. Where on earth had that guy managed to get a cocktail, right now? Un- _freakin_ ’-believable. Speaking of disbelief: Captain America had positioned himself directly next to Stark and watched him with eyebrows lifted so high that they almost vanished in his perfect blond hairline. He made even Clint feel bad, just by the disapproving stare he fixated on Tony (who was probably also, ironically, close to the only person on earth who could take that very stare and straight-out ignore it).

Steve Rogers turned his head when Clint came in and mustered him with unhidden concern. “Clint, shouldn’t you be in medical? You look like hell, soldier.” _I’m not a damn soldier, Rogers_ , Clint shot back with just his eyes. Then he decided to just shrug it off ( _Worst decision ever. Barton, you dummy! You’ve got a dislocated shoulder, how much more pain do you need to get that into that thick head of yours!?_ ). “Doctor cleared me, Steve. I’m good, ‘t’s close to nothin’.” The best and worst part about the American icon in the room was that he was so exceedingly trusting that he didn’t even realize when Clint lied straight to his face. “Oh… really? That quickly?” – “SHIELD medics, man, they’re not exactly Florence Nightingale, but damn, they’re efficient.”

Tasha looked up again to face him, her calm expression suddenly turning into the smallest crooked smile imaginable. She knew. Tasha always knew. To be fair, she had the experience none of the men in this room could have had when it came to Clint and paramedics. She knew his personal drill concerning must-treat injuries and maladies down to the last detail. Hell, she’d designed it, more or less, and just like Clint, she probably couldn’t remember the last time he had entered medical willingly or on his own two feet. He didn’t do meds, or medical staff. Especially, he didn’t do needles and no matter how bad the pain got, if Clint had a choice, he asked specifically to not be given any meds. They didn’t mix well with his consciousness. Mostly, he would just treat himself but if he couldn’t do that for any possible reason, Tasha and Clint would go back to one of their places later, have a drink or two, talk some and when he had his guard down (which was increasingly so after a few beer – especially when there was continuing blood loss involved), she’d knock him out in some new and hopefully unanticipated way and call one of her friends over, who was a nurse and didn’t ask stupid questions about the unconscious guy with the dislocated shoulder or the internal bleeding or the ruptured diaphragm that Tasha had handcuffed to her bed. And just like that, he’d wake up all treated and bandaged and have a cup of coffee with Tasha, tell her _thank you_ and make a mental note that he owed her some chocolates, right after he had fought the urge to punch her, and punch her hard, for besting him once more at his own game.

They had played this little charade so many times now, and they were getting exceedingly well at it. There was no need to involve anyone else.

“Oh, praised be the Ancestors, hawk-eyed one,” Thor boomed from the window, where he had been standing, enjoying the view. “Thou hadst me worried when I saw thee flung into that metal horse.” Clint frowned shortly. So that was what had happened? He’d been hit by a car, or rather, he’d hit a car? Gosh, his memory was still pretty blurred. He had passed out at a time, that much he knew, because he’d woken up and they had won. And yeah, Thor was another person he felt uncomfortable around. The guy was a bloody god. Close to _literally_.

And then there was the last guy on the team, silent as always, sitting in a chair as if he wished he were invisible. And in a way, he was. But Clint knew that the look was deceiving. Banner was easily the most terrifying, devastating force on the entire planet. He also held three doctorates and was the leading expert when it came to gamma radiation. _Another genius._ As if it wasn’t enough to have _one_ guy with an IQ above the measurable in their team, they had to invite another one. Not that Clint blamed Fury for that selection. The only weak link in this amazing mix was himself, because seriously, who was he? Next to the greatest spy ever to have lived, a god, a hero from the forties, a billionaire in a flying suit and the green rage monster, he was Regular Guy, the one guy who was on this team for no good reason.

How had he ended up with this bunch of high flyers again? Oh, right. He had been the traitor, the one they had offered a small chance of redemption after he had helped Loki to almost wipe out life on the planet. He had been a pity project of Natasha’s and Steve’s, the guy with the Palaeolithic stick and string. No genius (high-school-dropout, to be honest), no great armour nor invincibility nor invulnerability (he wished), no super powers. Just a regular guy with a bow and arrow and a cocky attitude and too much red on his ledger to ever wash off, ever again.

He knew it and this knowledge sucked. It sucked so badly. He hated this tower. He hated being on this team and feeling as if he didn’t belong. He had never had a problem with himself until Loki came and ripped him out of his own brain, stuffed something else in and played a game of puppeteer with his abilities, his knowledge, even his loyalties. And now he was stuck with this group of amazing people who reminded him, again and again, how insignificant and normal and _stupid_ he was. Stupid and _fragile_. Seriously. Working for SHIELD, Clint had suffered many an injury in the line of duty, but since he had joined the Avengers, he felt like every mission left him scarred for life, like every villain they took down, every threat, was too much for him to handle.

Clint finally pulled himself together, stepping towards the table and taking a seat. Every single movement was pain; he felt stiff and torn apart and almost… _smashed_. Like one gigantic bruise. He could feel eyes on him as he moved, but he kept his back straight and his head high and thought _Screw you people, screw all of you, just shut the hell up and leave me alone._

He didn’t pay much attention to Steve Rogers’ debrief. All his strength and concentration was used up to sit straight, sit as normal as possible, keep a calm face, ignore the pain in the rib cage, ignore the fact that his arm was still hanging in a somehow abnormal angle from his shoulder. It had been dislocated. He knew the feeling. It didn’t hurt that much, the bruises on his entire left side, which he apparently had used to parry an entire car with, were far worse, especially when he tried to breathe, but it was a sickening feeling nevertheless, like having an alien piece of meat hanging there, useless, immobile due to the pain it caused him to even think ‘lift your arm’. Finally, they were done talking. Or whatever. It felt like they’d been sitting here for hours, talking and talking and talking about collateral damage and tactics and Tony’s dislike of Steve and Steve’s disapproval of Tony and Natasha’s anger about the kindergarten she had become a part of and about collaboration with SHIELD and some more stuff no one really cared about. Clint was tired, so tired. He just wanted to be on his own now, go home, shut the door and lick his wounds. He’d find someone to put his shoulder back in, maybe Tasha, Tasha could do that, right? She’d done it once before, in Burma. Or India? Something along those lines. And once more in Kuwait. Wait, no, Kuwait, that had been Coulson. But he couldn’t ask Coulson, because he’d gotten him killed and even the memory of Hill’s face and the tremble in her voice when she told him he’d have to be reassigned to a new handler because Coulson didn’t make it… it almost made him sick. He couldn’t even think of a proper invective for himself. He pushed the thought away like he pushed all the guilt away, just down, down into that dark abyss that had devoured so many of his sins and nightmares. He just wanted to go home, curl up under his blankets and not come out for a few days. Or weeks. Depending on how long it took for the pain to subside and the weariness to wash off.

He had been so fixated on staying calm and pretending to listen to Rogers that he almost didn’t realize when Stark said something to him. “Um – _what?!_ ”

“I said I’ll tell Happy to give you a lift back to medical, or to the closest ER. Whichever one you prefer. You don’t look so good, Clint – and that’s the understatement of the year. You’re like half a smurf.”

Even when he was trying to be nice, Stark managed to sound insulting. Clint had to give him short mental credit for that, but he was too worn out to retaliate right now. “No need. Doctors cleared me. I’ll just go… home.“ _Or whatever._ Right now, he didn’t even care where he slept, as long as there was sleeping involved. Sleep and silence. “But – thanks, Stark.” _I guess._

“Would that be the doctor who made you a sling from a rag, Barton?” Shit. Guy had a brain. Clint forgot about that most of the time because of Stark’s annoying attitude but yeah. Right. _Genius. Although it wouldn’t have taken Sherlock Holmes to look through that lie._

“Fuck off, Stark.” He didn’t mind how he sounded or that was a crappy way of saying good-bye to everyone else. He just knew he couldn’t take the sarcasm, not now, not ever. Somehow, Clint managed to get to his feet and walk towards the door. He had almost made it to the elevator, when he heard hasty footsteps behind him, too fast to get away from in his current state. “Agent Barton… Clint?” – “Leave it alone, Tony, damnit!” He tried to spin around, but the best reaction he could do right now was a slow, agonizingly stiff turn, trying his best not to stagger. He had snarled out his threat before he even realized that he was shouting at the wrong guy, the one guy actually, who nobody in their right mind should shout at. “Sorry, Banner. I’m just… tired.” _Yeah, so stupidly tired that I mistake even your meek little voice for Stark’s unctuous nonsense._

Banner didn’t seem to mind much, however. He watched Clint closely, shyly, as if he expected him to grow violent and hit him at any second, shoulders hunched down and eyes lowered like those of a beaten child. Clint couldn’t see it. He was barely keeping up appearances; he had no strength left for talk or for sensitivity or for rationality. All he wanted was to get out of here, home, back to his place, where no one would bother him. Not Stark, not Rogers, not Banner. Not even Tasha. Bruce shuffled his feet. “I just… can I have a look at your shoulder? It makes me edgy and… I wouldn’t take you in medical, just – well. Doctor-instincts.” Clint stood still, looked at him, eyes wide. He had only taken in half what Banner said, but the trigger words had been there. _Medical. Doctor._ Enough to make his heart race against his agonized chest. Barton had instincts of his own and when Banner lifted a hand in order to help him, Clint flinched away as if the scientist had tried to hurt him. “Don’t touch me!” His breathing had become fast and fitful, every gasp for air a fight against the pain.

Bruce looked taken aback, hurt. But Clint didn’t care. He couldn’t waste any more energy on wondering how the greenest member of their team might interpret Clint’s refusal, how it might hurt him to be treated as a monster instead of a healer. Clint had his reasons. He was hurt and tired and he hated everyone, everything. Like a wounded animal, he was lashing out when pushed into a corner. All he wanted was to get out of here, and suddenly there was Tasha, putting an arm around him and smiling at Bruce, murmuring something along the lines of “nothing personal” and “I’ll take care of him, thanks Doc”, but he didn’t care. He walked with her to the elevator, realizing that the further they got, the more he was leaning on his partner. He knew, now that she was at his side, he would be fine. He always was. “You’re a stupid-ass fool, Barton. Can’t you just go to a therapist or something and get rid of that ridiculous paranoia already? It’s getting annoying and I don’t know if I can keep up finding new ways to put you down with you fighting me all the way to unconsciousness. I mean, come on, you’re such a big boy in any other way, why can’t you just get along with the nice uncle doctor?” She didn’t mean all that, even in her teasing voice, he could hear the almost motherly concern and the worried, hurt little undertone. He knew she didn’t mean it. She had been there when they tried to force him into a hospital the last time; she had seen the terror in his eyes and ever since then, she had been the first one to punch anyone closing in on Clint with a needle as long as he was still conscious, like a she-wolf protecting her little ones. 

 

She had not come to save him back then, when it first happened, she had not been there to watch his back and he knew that she partially blamed herself. His fear was another red spot on her ledger and by helping him cope with it she tried her best to live with that. Or she was just a really good friend. Either way, Barton loved Tasha. Sometimes, he thought that she was the most fabulous woman in the entire universe. Other times, like now for example, he just fell asleep on her shoulder as soon as she had miraculously stuffed him into the back seat of a cab, robbing her of the need to hit him on the head or lace his drink with narcotics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Hulk? NO HULK! WANT TO HAVE HULK! PUNY CLINT! PUNY BANNER! PUNY NEEDLES! HULK SMASHS NEEDLES!
> 
> (The Thornton-Squad says: Hulk never smashs Kudos or Comments, so build a wall out of that to hide behind.)


	3. 2. Walk Tall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is indeed not dead and it gets noticed. He freaks out about the second part. Also, he needs a hug and JARVIS is a sassy AI.

  
** 2\. Walk tall **

_All through the years that I grew up, ma taught these things to me_  
 _But I was young and foolish then and much too blind to see_  
 _I ignored the things she said as if I'd never heard_  
 _Now I see and understand the wisdom of her words_

_Walk tall, walk straight and look the world right in the eye_  
 _That's what my mama told me when I was about knee high_  
 _She said, son, be a proud man and hold your head up high_  
 _Walk tall, walk straight and look the world right in the eye_

**I**

Stark Tower, NYC | August 18, 2013

_“I don’t understand why you are always so calm”, Betty said, her toes curling around Bruce’s. They were sitting in their booth at the milkshake-shop and had both discarded shoes and socks. Some people were looking, but they didn’t care. They never cared. Betty had a strawberry-milkshake and Bruce had some kind of peppermint-stuff. He didn’t care for the taste, but he liked the colour. Green always cheered him up, somehow._  
 _  
“Am I?” Bruce shrugged, poked her pinkie toe with his big one and took a sip of his peppermint-with-chocolate-stuff._  
 _  
“Yeah. ABSURDLY so.” She huffed and poked him with her spoon. He got milkshake on his nose, rubbed it away. Betty just smiled and leaned back. “It’s like...well, it’s just so different, you know? It seems like you have no problems at all or like you just don’t care about them. You are kind to everyone, you’re never angry and… you are just so ZEN about everything.”_  
 _  
“Sounds boring.”_  
 _  
“Sounds suspicious. No one is like that. And you didn’t even have such a good childhood. Did you? I mean...with your parents dead and all, and… ahm…I really didn’t want to go there…”_  
 _  
“It’s alright.” He shrugged again. “I just… I feel calm. Why should I bother to get angry or scared? And yes - dead parents. It’s not nice but… it has always been alright. I don’t remember that much about them and you met my uncle and aunt. They are good people.” He grinned, leaned back and downed his milkshake. “I am sorry, but there are just no evil secrets lurking at the bottom of me. There is just good ol’ me. I am… simple.”_  
 _  
She regarded him with a long look, then she kicked him under the table. Betty tried to look stern, but she failed. There was too much mischief in her eyes. “You are too goddamned LAZY to care about being angry at stuff, that has to be it._ ”  
 _  
“Big ol’ lazy-ass. That’s me.”_

He wasn’t too lazy to be afraid now. Bruce didn’t think that counted as an improvement. His eyes were closed and he leaned against the wall and tried to make his heart beat normally, to force the sweat on his hands back inside. He felt cold and even the anger, that was always there, subsided to the background, a low humming. Even the other guy didn’t want to disturb him at being a coward.

“Sir…”  
“I just need a minute, JARVIS! Just one freaking minute, alright?”  
There was a pause. “Very well, Sir.” Then: “Taking in consideration the amount of time that has passed since you said you needed just a second… shall I make arrangements for the gentleman to be taken to a hotel?”  
“NO!”  
“Then I might send Dummy to get a sleeping bag. I wouldn’t want to take your minute away from you, Sir. I am just an AI. I measure by atomic precision. Humans tend to feel time differently. It is a very complex system to grasp and I cannot assume that I will master it any time soon.” A pause. “It might take me a minute, actually.”  
“I sometimes hate you. Very much.”  
“You do not.” The ventilating system hummed and Bruce got the feeling, that it was actually JARVIS and DAMN it wasn’t healthy that the AI running this thing was a British… something of Tony fucking Stark. “I have been informed that I am quite lovable.”  
“Let me guess: Darcy, Pepper, Jane?”  
“....”  
“Yeah, I hate it to break it to you buddy, but that’s the accent.”  
“I suppose your minute is up.”

Goddammit! He was being defeated by an AI. Again. He had learnt to accept JARVIS, but it was still strange and it creeped him out just a little bit. Of course JARVIS was beautiful and brilliant. The whole idea of an AI like that - functioning, working, probably _feeling_ , was something that made him giddy and gave him something Tony had called a _science-boner_. It was Tony’s brilliance, it was rash and impossible and Sci-Fi and of course it was British and sassy. But it was also watching, always watching. Bruce adored JARVIS as an experiment, as a result as… well. As what he was, but he would have preferred to not know that there was an AI watching him all the time. He couldn’t imagine the data that JARVIS had about him. No one should have that much data about him. No one should...well. _Analyze him_ and he was pretty damn sure, that JARVIS was doing that because that was his goddamn job. Bruce had managed to get JARVIS-free-rooms. His bedroom was JARVIS-free as was his bathroom. He didn’t want anyone to see how he slept. He didn’t want people to know if he was sleepwalking or having really bad dreams or just simply sitting with his back to the wall all night, shivering and afraid. Tony thought that he was just being prudish and that was alright. Better than the truth. Everything was better than the truth. 

Bruce deflated, shrunk into himself and took a look on his clock. “How long has he been waiting?”  
“Well, by MY counting… 127 minutes and 21 seconds. 22. 23. 2-”  
“Yes, yes… alright.” Bruce got up, combed his hair with his hands and looked down, took in the colourful shirt (aquamarine), the soft pants and the furry slippers. He had wanted to go barefooted. He had always been barefooted at home and it had made him feel free and good and pure but he couldn’t do that anymore. Ever. He couldn’t risk cutting himself without noticing. So he had slippers. Furry slippers. They resembled a character from Sesame-Street: Oscar. Green fur, big eyes. It was childish and immature and not really what he wanted to wear when he was facing that man outside. But he couldn’t go upstairs and put on a suit and dress shoes, it… it would make him feel like wearing a costume. So, well… It was probably for the best if he just didn’t change anything, right? Right. Riiiiiiight...

“...how do I look?”  
“I am not allowed to comment on that.”  
“WHAT?”  
“I am not allowed to comment on that. Sir doesn’t take well to it. It is a safety precaution.”  
Bruce imagined Tony having a hissy fit about his AI telling him that his pants made his ass look fat and really, that leather was for people _way_ younger than him. The image helped to calm him down, made him grin a little bit. He could do this. He had done stuff a lot scarier. He couldn't remember any of it at the moment, but should have been there. Running from Ross, facing a lot of guns, going to a wasteland of ice, being afraid that it wouldn't work, that he wouldn't die. Somehow this situation right now seemed scarier. Scary like it had been when he was a child and went home with another A++ in his bag. When you were a kid, everything seemed scarier. The world was a scary place if you couldn’t defend yourself. As a kid you were small, tiny, weak. _Puny._ You screamed and it didn’t help. And everyone was tall and big and strong and like a brick wall, something you couldn’t fight against. So yeah. Everything had been scary when he had been a kid. Like it had been for everyone else too. And now he felt like a kid again. Like someone who didn’t know the rules, who had just dices when the game being played was bridge.

Bruce took a deep, soothing breath and imagined a place where everything was calm and peaceful, where no one wanted to hurt him, where there were butterflies and big flowers and the music of water rushing by. When he felt calm and relaxed, he pushed some invisible dirt from his trousers and went through the door to the so-called waiting room, where Pepper had been nice enough to host his visitor.  
The man didn’t look like he had waited two hours. He looked like he had waited two _days_ and sat out a hurricane while at it.  
His face was stern, but Bruce knew most of the wrinkles there. Nevertheless...the man looked older than the last time he had seen him. His hair had started to fall out and he looked so goddamn tired and determined that Bruce knew, he couldn’t run from this one. He felt like he was a kid again. He felt like being sixteen and sitting on the sofa and waiting for hell to break loose, for his world to crumble and break. He felt like he had tried and tried and tried and then the world had punched him too hard and he had shown his true colors and was now being called on that. _I am green. Green and red like blood._  
It had all been way too nice. He had waited for the nice things to end and that one day… that one day they had actually ended. Now here he was, having nice things again. Having people who might become friends. Or a family. Or… well. Just people, really, people whose names he knew and who knew his. People he could do science with and with whom he could talk about the newest movie he had seen. People to joke with. People who didn’t flinch when they saw him but who _knew_ , who had _seen_ the other guy. 

God, he was so fucking afraid.

“Hi.”, he managed, pulled at his hair, shuffled his feet. “Ahm..I… do you need something? A glass of water, perhaps?”  
“A robot came and brought me a glass of soda.”  
“You…” Bruce looked around. You couldn’t always trust Tony’s robots. No, scratch that, you could NEVER trust them. Except for JARVIS, but JARVIS was a sassy one. It came with the intellect. But the man seemed fine. Not poisoned or anything. Just tired. “I could get you something to eat or a coffee or a tea. I make excellent tea and Pepper knows this really nice place in Brooklyn and -”  
“Robert.”  
Bruce’s mouth snapped shut. He looked on the floor and counted the little dust-balls that were not there. He imagined dust-balls. That was ok. Imaginary dust-balls were safe. He wanted to turn around and run, he couldn’t… he couldn’t just stay here and…  
“Robert.”, the voice said again. He knew this voice and normally that voice had made him calm. This time though… this time he waited like he had waited back then, on the couch. That _name_ didn’t make it any better. He preferred Bruce. Most of the time he forgot that he even _had_ an actual, different first name.  
“Did I teach you to look down like a li’l girl waiting to be asked to dance at her very first ball?”  
“No, Sir,” Bruce said and a little smile crept onto his lips, but he didn’t know if he was allowed to smile, if he should smile or if this whole thing would be… well. Just him, being guilty, losing another good memory. He didn’t have that many left.  
“What did I teach you?”  
“ _Walk tall, walk straight, look the world right in the eye…_ ” Bruce hummed under his breath. Everything he knew, it could be said in songs. Well… just the stuff he had been told as a child. It was funny, really. When he had been little everything had seemed to come together with songs. When nothing else had been able to reach him, songs still got through. He could work with songs. It was the one thing he had taken from his time with the shrink. Everything else had just been sitting-and-smiling-and-waiting-for-it-to-be-over. He remembered that there had always been someone watching cartoons a few houses down the street. Bruce had been able to see the telly when he had stared through the window. He always had a hot milk with honey in his hands and there had always been a mute cartoon and after a while there had been songs. The shrink had wanted him to use the songs to express himself but he had used them to hide. It had helped, though. A little bit at least. But well. There hadn’t been anything wrong with him, there had been no problems. So it had been quite something that it had helped. 

“You’re doing that?”  
“I am trying.” Now he looked up, met the stare of the man und shrunk a little bit more. “I am still much better at running away.”  
“Not from what I was seeing.” And now the man smiled and it made the fear go away. At least for the moment. He pulled him into a hug that could have crushed the bones of a lesser man. “It is good to see you, son.”  
Bruce faltered. “Good to see you too, Uncle Morris.”

The man sat down on the couch and Bruce went with him. He heard the click of a door and feet in high heels, leaving. Pepper. She had probably just wanted to make sure that Bruce was okay. Or that the guest was okay, he couldn’t say. Sometimes she seemed so afraid and then again like a friend, a real one and that was something he really didn’t get so it freaked him out a little bit.  
He knew what he was and he was pitifully thankful for the moments when he was reminded that he wasn’t just imagining things, that Tony wasn’t right when he told him to shut it already, to stop being a _big ol’ green baby_ and accept the other guy as part of the team. Bruce knew he wasn’t normal. Bruce knew he was a monster and dangerous and that there was no place on earth where he could be without being guilty of endangering people.  
He had been so thankful for Barton’s look the other day. Bruce had seen how he had hunched up on his seat and had kept his mouth shut. He was silent most of the time. There was no way to get between Tony and Steve, so he waited until someone asked for his opinion. Normally it was Tony in need of backup and most of the time Bruce complied and got a nut or a raisin or a fucking candy bar. Like the pet that he was. A pet that Tony would tire of someday, but that was quite alright. Bruce enjoyed it as long as he could.

Bruce knew two things to improve his situation: He knew how to fix people. He knew how to really look, how to recognize pain and how to soothe it. He liked that. It made him feel useful and… warm. It made him feel like a human being, like something more than the Other Guy’s day suit. Sometimes he even forgot that he wasn’t a doctor anymore. That he was really just a monster, that he was dangerous and a threat. Sometimes he forgot for a whole day and he started worrying that he might not bother to remember again. So yeah… it had helped. He had wanted to fix Barton because the guy had been in pain and hadn’t wanted to go into medical. Bruce knew that Barton didn’t like doctors or anything like that. It was obvious if one was watching and listening and Bruce did little else. Almost no one was ever noticing him. Barton did sometimes and Tasha too. They were the best assassins in the world. Or at least right there at the top. They knew how to keep tabs on the biggest threats in the room.  
So Bruce had looked at Barton when he had lied to Cap. It was so easy to lie to Cap, at least for people who lied quite a lot. Cap and Thor were the honest people in the squad. They were honest enough that deceit wasn’t an option that came easily to them and they tended to believe everyone. Bruce wasn’t like that. He had always been mistrusting. He had always been waiting for people to deceive him. He hadn’t been afraid of that option, but he had known that it was there.  
And - more importantly - Bruce knew how people looked who were afraid of medical institutions. There were many reasons for that and he didn’t know Barton’s but he had seen that the guy needed help, needed someone to patch him up, to fix him. 

Barton didn’t want Bruce to touch him, to fix him. Good for Barton. Barton didn’t forget.

The other thing Bruce knew how to do was running. He had run from Ross. He had run around the whole wide world twice and back again. He ran and he hid himself, curved a nice little hole in the world to disappear in. He had to live with himself, he knew that now. He knew he couldn’t run from the Other Guy, he knew he couldn’t run from the death toll or the anger. But he still wanted to run from nearly everything else.  
Right now he wanted to run from the kind eyes and the stern lines around his uncle’s mouth. Right now he wanted to hide, because this was a reminder that he had once been normal, that he had had a home and hadn’t been a threat. He might forget again and he didn’t want to go see Barton to get reminded that he scared people, even the deadliest of them.

“... how did you find me?” Bruce asked and looked at his slipper.  
His uncle cocked his head. For a moment, there was something in the air and Bruce was waiting for sarcasm. The Stark Tower was built out of sarcasm. But Uncle Morris was not. He was a down-to-the-earth type of guy. He thought middle names were extravagant and had never started to call Bruce ‘Bruce’. He went to church every Sunday, liked cherry pie with a good spoon of ice cream and drove a truck that had been a decade old when Bruce had been born. He cursed very seldomly and every ‘damn’ meant that there was something bound for hell.  
“Son, you’re all over the telly.” Uncle Morris put his hands together and leaned back. He was lacking a cowboy-hat. Bruce knew that he had one, back home. He knew that his uncle knew how to ride a horse without a saddle and how to shoot bottles from the hip. “Or you have been at least. You kinda… well people tend to forget that there is a ‘you’ when they can show that… what’s the correct word for it?”  
“You mean the politically correct one?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Monster.”  
“Ah. Figures.” He nodded, like that had been a revelation in and on itself. “Well. You call it whatever you want. It’s kinda relaxing looking at it and knowing that it’s you inside. Needed to let a little bit of steam off, kiddo, you have always been too cold.”  
“He’s not me,” Bruce said and scratched his head. So his uncle thought that the Hulk was an actual improvement, a nice way to go about his anger issues. He snickered. Uncle Morris and Tony would have a field day together if the old sheriff wouldn’t shoot Tony on sight and later say, he had thought him to be stealing some stock. “I don’t remember most of the stuff he does. I just wake up and try to fix some of the things he smashed.”  
“Ah. Too bad.”

They were silent for a moment, then Uncle Morris put a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. He did not look at him. He seldomly did, Bruce remembered. Uncle Morris had never really known how to work with him. His wife neither. They had taken him in, they had fed him, sent him to school and they had tried to teach him stuff but they had been wary in the beginning. They hadn’t known what to do with him. He had tried to make it easier for them. He had smiled. A lot. Grown ups liked it when kids smiled, he had known that and he had known how to smile to make it real. He had been calm, composed. He had been trained well enough that he had brought home Bs and Cs. It had worked quite well until his teacher had found that book in his backpack. He had just been too bored, so he had started to read about quantum mechanics and wormhole-theories. That had been the beginning of the end, now that he thought about it. The teacher had called the Walters and they had come and they had looked at the books and then Bruce had to take these stupid tests and Uncle Morris had let him swear, that he would do his best at them. They had been way too easy and when there had been the results, Bruce had stared out of the window. Uncle Morris and Auntie Elaine had blanched when they had heard it and Bruce had thought that he would have to go then. _Not measurable._  
 _”Robert…”_ His aunt had taken his hands. _”Sweetheart...why did you… why did you hide that?”_  
 _”It’s not normal. I am sorry. I didn’t want to bother anyone. I can go on without the books?”_  
It had taken quite a long time for them to convince him that it was alright to be smart and that he shouldn’t hide it.  
It had been one of the few occasions his uncle had been severely wrong. 

“They told us you were dead. This General Ross… the one you worked for, Betty’s Dad… he came to our house and he said to my face, that you were dead. That you had conducted some kind of bullshit experiment and blown yourself up.”  
“Actually, he tried to blow me up several times.”  
“Figures. I never liked that guy.” Silence. It stretched between them and despite the fact that Morris and Bruce were smiling, it was a heavy silence, waiting with possible things that could be said. “Robert…” Morris said, using Bruce’s first name _again_ and Bruce tried not to flinch. “Son… we thought you were dead. We had an empty grave for you. We still have. We mourned for you. Jen… Jen went into therapy for three years. She didn’t speak for 6 months.”  
Bruce forced himself to look up, to look his uncle in the eyes. “I know. I saw her shrink’s documents.”  
His uncle crunched his face. “Robert… did you hack into these files?”  
Bruce smiled and scratched his neck. He didn’t like that his uncle looked disappointed, like Bruce had kicked him or just killed a puppy. He forgave Bruce for the other guy or at least he didn’t mention him, but a petty, normal crime like hacking into shrink-data…that wouldn’t do.  
“I taught you better, son.”  
“Yes, you did.” Bruce let his head hang. “It… just didn’t seem like there were a lot of room for the old rules. I had so many new ones.”

There was that silence again. Morris’ arm touched Bruce’s and neither of the men commented on that. That was the nice thing about uncle Morris. One of many nice things. He didn’t force you to talk and when you just kept your mouth shut with him, there could be one hell of a conversation with just a few words, a nod or a touch.  
“You could have told us. One card, Robert. It would have been all we would have needed. One card to know you’re alive. One phone call.”  
“I couldn’t. Your mail is being searched.” Bruce didn’t know that with certainty but he would have been a fool to assume otherwise. “And they would have tracked me. I didn’t exactly want them to find me. It would have meant more bodies and… well. They could have taken you.”  
Morris didn’t deny that. He had met Ross. He did know a thing or two about people and Bruce could see it in his eyes, hear it in the way that he relaxed, that he understood and that he would tell Jen. He wouldn’t tell his wife. She had passed away two years ago. Bruce hadn’t known until last spring.  
Bruce thought that that would be all. That Uncle Morris would ask him to come for Thanksgiving and that he wouldn’t be put out if Bruce declined. But that wasn’t what he wanted.  
“You’re not dead any more. Whole world knows you’re well and alive and… here.”  
He didn’t like Tony. Bruce didn’t need to ask. Tony was everything that uncle Morris despised. At least ‘Telly-Tony’ was. He was flashy and arrogant and he didn’t care about anything. He was _eccentric._ Bruce could see the word, could see it making his uncle curl up inside. His poor, down-to-earth, beer out-of-the-bottle-uncle, who thought middle names were something you shouldn’t need to think about.  
He probably thought that Tony was doing drugs and that he was no company for Bruce. But he didn’t say any of that and that told Bruce quite a lot. It was unnerving how much it told him and there was pain and guilt clawing at him. He couldn’t make it go away. Not now. Not ever. He would never be able to make it better. _I have to visit that grave._

“I am not dead.”, Bruce confirmed, because it seemed the right thing to do.  
“Then there is a visit you have to make.”  
Everything in Bruce went hot and cold at the same time. “No.”, he said. “No, uncle, I _can’t!_ Please, it will…. it will be a disaster, it will be…”  
“It has always been a disaster.” His uncle looked at him, cold and unyielding. His word was the law. His word was just. He put his foot down on something and it would be done. “The whole… monster-thing won’t make it worse. It will probably do you some good. Maybe you’ll be able to at least _scream_ at him.”  
Bruce looked down to the ground. He hoped that not. He hoped that it would all be ok. He hoped that it would be like it always had been: Just another bad dream. Something he didn’t remember when it was over.  
“I will go.”, he said and felt his uncle’s hand on his shoulder. Inside his mind the Hulk uncurled and shuddered. Great. They were both afraid.

 

**II**

 

Los Angeles, Graham Memorial | August 19, 2013

 

Graham Memorial was a huge, white building. And that was that. It was a cube. It wasn’t even ugly, like it couldn’t have been bothered. It was just the damn plainest building on this earth and Erica had to say that she liked it that way. It couldn’t look normal enough and it couldn’t look clinical enough. There were no flowers outside, there was no garden, no giftshop in the lobby. This wasn’t the kind of place for that. This was where they put the people who should never, EVER get out. They brought the people here and they locked them up and they locked them up good. Sometimes other people came to visit. People who were family members or old colleagues or just plain dumb. Erika didn’t care normally.  
But she looked outside and she saw that man standing on the other side of the street. His shoulders were hunched and his hair was ridiculous, even though it was under a baseball cap, just finding its way down the sides. The man was shuffling his feet, scratching his neck and huffing. He looked as nervous as a boy before his first big date. Erika thought he was cute, but she didn’t know how to interpret the fact that he was standing there, obviously trying to get the courage to come inside.  
She hoped that he was just some exchange doctor or something like that. He looked like a doctor. Or more like a professor, actually. The scruffy, nerdy where-did-I-put-my-glasses-type of prof. She had always had a knack for that kind and she didn’t want to see him getting broken.  
When he finally started walking, Erika went to the lobby. Harry stood there and looked at her, a question in his eyes, but then the guy was there, all scruffy charm and being a shy little cockerspaniel with that hair of his. Harry took one look at him.  
“Well,” he said, his voice flat and unmoving. Strange, actually. He usually wasn’t quite like that, except for the mobsters perhaps or the really bad cops. The guy didn’t look either of the parts. “It has been quite some time since your last visit.”  
“Yes,” the man said, nodded and then swallowed. His adam’s apple was bopping around slightly and there was sweat glistening in his neck. “Yes, that is right. I… I want to….”  
“I know where you want to go. He is still in the same room. Go to the visit chamber Nr 8, he will be brought there.”  
“Yes,” the man nodded, turned away and said without looking: “Thank you. Have a nice day.”  
Harry watched him stumbling away, then he put the phone to his ear and spoke into it. “Mike. We got a visitor for BB-5-0-6. Get him to eight, will ya?”  
“BB-5-0-6? Are you SERIOUS?”  
Erika stepped up and peered at Harry’s face in order to find clues. He had to be kidding. “That guy… he’s going to tear him apart, even if he’s just sitting there, bound to his chair!”  
“He won’t. He has had this special visitor quite regularly in the past.” Harry took her by the arm and put her in front of the video-feed. He put it on and sound poured out. It took her five minutes to stop thinking that there was some kind of joke going on. After another five minutes she didn’t want to listen any more. When the guy came back down the hallway, he hummed something under his breath, some song or other. He passed Erika and winked at her. She shuddered, turned away and was awfully thankful that that guy wasn’t staying inside.  
“When is he coming back?” She asked Harry. He shrugged.  
“Normally he’s here at 6/19 every year.”  
“Well. I know when I’m going to take my holiday.”  
“Get in line. It will be a total havoc, now that he’s back.”  
Erika didn’t care. She would leave this institution if she had to, but she would never, NEVER set eyes on that monster again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be a party! Yes! Really! You want a party-hat? Then leave kudos (they cheer Brucey up) or a comment. We'd like to get your input. Otherwise we might just enjoy ourselfs being evil. That could end nasty.
> 
> This work is still in the making and comments might actually have an impact on where we're headed. If there're no comments, we'll decide what's happening next all on our own, and we'll be angry by doing it. You guys won't like it when we're angry... Or, maybe, you just might :D.


	4. 3. Something's Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We present to you *drumroll* The first appearance of the Thornton Squad! We know you've all anxiously been waiting for them *ignores whispers such as "The who???"* and are thrilled to finally meet them.  
> On another note, some minory character called Clint Barton might be in trouble. Or maybe he's just being a little princess again. But who cares, right?
> 
> All Hail the Thornton Squad!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A short update on our warnings:**
> 
> We told you before that this was a work in process and maybe we even implied we're two pretty dark, evil, twisted creatures. So yeah. This sort of started out to be a rather fluffy, but also a little bit dark and dramatic bromance fic and it still is, and always will be, but it took a darker turn than we anticipated from the beginning.  
> We promised you no slash, in a way there still won't be because we refuse to make the entire Betty- and Tasha-storylines just go away. However, there will be some one-sided and at parts disturbing attraction. There will also be a little bit of non/con-action, no rape up to this point (if that changes, you'll get another head's up), just... let's say one of the participants doesn't exactly want something to happen whereas for the other one it's just damn perfect and he's sort of in a dominant position at that point.  
> Don't freak out. We can see how stuff like this can be extremely upsetting to some, maybe even an emotional trigger and we can see not everyone will want to read parts like this. Which is why we will continue to post separate warnings over each chapter that involves graphic or non-graphic violence, non-con etc. We choose to give you general warnings on the top of these chapters and include the detailed warning at the end of the chapter so that those who are okay with everything and don't want to have spoilers can just read on. We hope by this we can keep the evil flowing and still have all of you guys enjoy yourselves.

  
** 3\. Something’s Wrong **

_There’s one who takes it all_  
 _And one who takes the fall_  
 _One who never wins_  
 _And there’s one who stands again_

_There’s one who lives in pain_  
 _And there’s one who has no shame_  
 _There’s one to tell the lies_  
 _And one to make the alibis_

_There’s one who makes the rules_  
 _And there’s one to play the fool_  
 _(Always a fool)_  
 _One with jealous hands_  
 _And one who plays the friend_  
 _(‘Cause everybody needs one)_

_Round and round and round and round we go_  
 _Where we’re gonna stop – nobody knows_  
 _Something’s wrong, I feel it in my soul_  
 _Round and round and round and round we go_

**I**

Clint Barton’s Apartment, Bedford-Stuyvesant, NYC | August 19, 2013

_Thud-thud. Catch. Thud-thud. Catch_.

Clint tossed the tennis-ball through the room. It passed the left side of his second-hand TV set, almost grazing it, then bounced off the wall directly right of his laptop monitor, springing back, hitting the ground right below the coffee table and completing its journey back into his hand by an angle so perfect that Hawkeye only needed to close his fist in order to catch it. He waited the quarter of a second as if to keep a steady rhythm, much like his heartbeat; then he threw the ball again, hard. _Thud-thud. Catch_. He had been doing this little stunt all morning, watching Dog Cops with just one eye, using the other one to aim. If he had hoped that either activity would take his mind off the pain in his shoulder, he had been stupidly mistaken. The damn thing ached all the time, although he had considered Tasha’s not so subtle request and put on the sling to immobilise it. She had also left some pain medication in the brown paper bag with his groceries, as if to mock him. She knew that he resented anything that clouded his sight or his judgement.

_Thud-thud. Catch_. He had yet to destroy part of his furnishing - but between the TV, the laptop, the glass plate of the coffee table and his infallible aim, he had yet to mess up. Normally, he would have been proud that he never missed. Today, he was purely annoyed by the fact. He was useless, but he still managed a completely stupid task that most people he knew would have been too clumsy to do. He was _bored_. Royally so. Actually, he was so bored he felt pissed. The frustration and anger seethed under his ever calm expression, the only sign of his annoyance was the tight clench of his jawline that was a little bit too _talk-to-me-and-I’ll-kill-you-with-this-tennis-ball_ and the coolness in his steel-blue eyes that was a little bit too _can’t-be-bothered_. He felt useless, reduced to a one-winged, crippled little bird. Natasha had taken him straight home three nights ago. She had brought order into things, putting his shoulder back in, him under the shower, some food into his stomach, his smashed up body into bed and finally the lights out. And then, apparently, she had left. _Thud-thud. Catch. Thud-thud. Catch._  
She hadn’t been back in the morning, but that was okay because when Clint came to, he realized she had also put provisions into his fridge and a small note on the counter. _‘Don’t mess around, Barton. You dislocate that shoulder again, I’ll skin you. Use the damn sling I bought you. Eat healthy. Be checking in on you in two days.’_ She had truly thought of everything. She had even taken his damn bow so he wouldn’t be able to practice and risk injuring himself again. Clint wasn’t stupid enough to ignore her warning, quite oppositely, he followed the rules she had set for him. He knew better than to cross Natasha Romanov. Girl had quite a temper.

That didn’t change the fact, however, that he was _bored_. It had been three nights. Tasha had been here as promised, had checked in to see if he was okay, bring new provisions and tell him that he was officially on medical leave for the next three weeks, after which he was supposed to check in with medical for physical therapy. Clint had just shook his head and snorted. He and Tasha both knew that that was complete BS. He wouldn’t be doing therapy, or rather, he would be doing his own way of therapy that basically meant ‘get back out there and get back at the sons of bitches who wiped the floor with your dignity last time’. Thanks to his training, Clint’s shoulder muscles were as developed as they got. Sure, he would have to play it safe for a couple of weeks and that. _Thud-thud catch_. Sucked. _Thud-thud catch_. So. _Thud-thud catch_. Much.

A sudden knock on his door flicked Clint’s head around and he stopped the rhythmical tossing and catching, frowning ever so slightly. It wasn’t Tasha’s usual time and he didn’t expect any more visitors. As a matter of fact, he had never given this address away safe for the vocal information he’d given to Tasha. Of course, he suspected that SHIELD knew about this place. But they had kept their distance up till now. So it was probably one of his neighbours, right? Probably Grills, needing a hand with something. Or Simone, hoping he’d look after her kids for the afternoon. Which would probably be more fun than sitting in here all on his own, flipping a tennis ball against the wall, hoping it would magically disintegrate his existential boredom.

Another knock. Whoever it was, they weren’t going away. Clint sighed, decided that at this point, anything was better than being alone, and stood up. “Comin’!” Scuffling, the agent crossed the short distance between his couch and the door to the hallway. Halfway there, he hesitated, then stepped over to his bunk bed, grabbing his Walther from underneath the pillow, where he had stowed it just in case of ‘whatever might happen’. He considered locking and loading it, but that seemed like too much risk for too little security, so he just held it while he silently took the last two steps. It took him some fumbling around to hold his gun and use the doorknob with the same hand, but he managed somehow and opened the door a tiny crack.

Surprised, he then opened the door completely. The man in front of him was clearly not Simone: In his mid-forties, tall, shoulders broad, hair and beard black with the slightest traces of silver, suit according to SHIELD regulation right down to the crease in his pair of trousers and a gaze as cold as ice. Even his stance was bloody perfect, a mixture of subtle threat and characteristic James-Bond-attitude. “Thornton. To be honest, that’s… unsuspected. And… you brought Thornton. Lovely surprise.” Clint smiled at the pretty young woman (wearing a power suit) right behind Thornton Nr. 1, but as if to add to his genuine confusion, she just stared back blankly, brown eyes wide open and cautious. “And here I thought you’d be happy to see me again, Maya.” He lifted his eyebrows, but the two SHIELD-agents just kept on watching him, calmly, their hands on their hips as if they wanted to be ready to produce their guns at any time. Clint didn’t exactly understand what either of them would be doing here, but maybe they were working a case that they needed his help with and since he was on medical leave, they’d decided to come out and seek him out personally. Maybe Maya was just embarrassed about their history in front of her partner. That was possible. Clint shook his head, tossing the Walther over to his bed in a way that they wouldn’t even see the gun. He didn’t want to make this situation any more awkward than it already seemed to be. “Okay, you guys are seriously freaking me out. Relax, David, I’m not going to scratch your eye-socket with one of my arrows anytime soon. Boss really doesn’t like it when I play dirty with my co-workers. Come on in. Have a cup of coffee, or whatever.” Clint moved away from the door and deduced by the sound of footsteps, that the two agents were following him, slowly, as if they were expecting some sort of ambush.

“Are you armed?” David investigated coldly. His voice had a little strain that Clint only recognized because he knew Thornton’s normal voice very well. It was the same little strain he had heard in the comlink three years ago in Ecuador, before everything went south. Back then, he’d thought that Thornton was just overreacting. He had been wrong about David back then, too, and that worried the archer more than he wanted to let his visitors know.

“Should I be?” Clint couldn’t help but flash them with a self-assured grin, hoping they wouldn’t sense his shrinking self-assuredness and please, fucking please, just lighten up already. Seriously, they both seemed to be in desperate need of some hugs. With Maya, he might actually be willing to comply, David – not so much. They had history, too, but not exactly the good kind. Not half as much fun to work with David as it had been to work Maya. _With_ Maya. _Goddamnit, Barton, keep it together!_ The Thorntons had been working for the government for generations. There had probably been a Thornton guarding the Mayflower or something. They were as all-American as Steve Rogers and not only able to recite the SHIELD protocol letter by letter, they even lived by it as monks were supposed to live by the bible, or whatever it was they lived by - Clint had never been overly religious. But yeah, if the Thorntons were pious, the SHIELD rule book would be their declaration of beliefs. Like, seriously. They took that crap for gold. It was no secret that the Thornton family had no tolerance for rule-breakers, traitors or criminals. And these two fine specimens who were doing their best to ruin Clint’s medical leave with uncomfortable silence and even more uncomfortably unsettling questions made no exception, even if Maya had made an exception with Clint, once. Well, counting it to a T, they had made three and a half exceptions throughout that one night. Stakeout in Paris. Boring assignment, he couldn’t even remember exactly who they had been watching - it had been a wrong lead, anyways. There was nothing so unrewarding as bad intel – or so they had thought until they took their own reward, again and again and… God, he had to stop thinking about this. If Tasha were here, she’d probably read his thoughts by the dirty grin on his face and clap the back of his head. The sex had been really good, however. Obviously, SHIELD-protocol wasn’t the only thing Maya had memorized, Clint mused to himself and wasn’t at all ashamed of his growing grin, the sparkle with which he mustered her professional stance and the evil satisfaction that suffused him as soon as he felt David Thornton’s murderous stare prickling on his skin. Oh, of course. Overly protective elder cousin didn’t like his younger cousin being touched, never mind the fact that she had been a consenting, willing adult at the time. In fact, she had been the one to initiate it. Okay, no, that had technically been him. But seeing as they had broken several protocols just thinking about it whilst being deployed, Clinton figured that he could push all fault on her. He had always been a rebel, everyone knew that. He was the bad boy here. He couldn’t be blamed for the good girl’s dumb ass decisions.

Maybe it was the sight of his face that made Thornton wish to hit Barton, maybe it was their extensive history that neither of them had ever been able to come to terms with. Either way, the desire and the growing impatience showed on his face and in his voice. “No rhetorical questions, Barton. Are you armed - yes or no?” - “Come on, Thornton. I’m on medical leave, what d’you think?!” Clint rolled his eyes. Before he could draw another slow, painfully flat breath, however, two guns were pointing at the middle of his forehead, right between his eyes. None of his fellow agents was half the shot Hawkeye was, but damn, they were standing right in front of him, in his room, far enough that a move on them would be a dumb move and close enough that he couldn’t make it to the air-duct or the windows or any cover in time. No way he could dodge those bullets or take cover before they started firing. Sighing inwardly, Clint cursed himself and his stupidity. How did crap like that keep on happening to him? He started trusting people. Organizations. He let his guard down, and then – boom! – he got screwed for it. He had known this day would come, eventually. SHIELD turning on their asset. He just never had thought they’d send the Thornton-squad to eliminate him. Or wherever this was going… Didn’t look good, though. Even blindfolded, none of them bloody backstabbing bastards (and yeah, he congratulated himself on the mental alliteration) could miss. Neither of them was stupid enough to leave the security on or make any other rookie mistake, too. So no point in trying anything. Not yet, anyway. And his left arm was still in his sling. Barton had always been a leftie. God, this _sucked_. “Okay, guys… I’m starting to take this personally.”

“Shut up, Barton, and answer the question. Yes - or no.” Clint sighed, lifting his right hand up slowly so that they’d see it. “I tossed my Walther on my bunk bed, when I realized SHIELD was the one paying me a little social call.” He sounded almost bored, but he most certainly wasn’t bored any more. He’d been complaining about his boring, stupid, lonely apartment all morning and about how much he missed being at work. Now he sort of hated himself for that because frankly, Dog Cops and a tennis ball had been better company than this. Maya moved over to the bed, slowly, walking backwards so she could point her gun at him at any moment, recovering Clint’s sidearm. He felt naked already, but David’s distrusting glance was too much even for Clint to bear. “Oh come on, Jacky. ‘Course I didn’t answer my door unarmed. There’s probably even some stupid-ass protocol for that somewhere.” Neither of them responded to that, Maya, however, took her weapon down. “Anything else?” As soon as she had secured her own gun, the pretty young woman stepped closer stiffly, pushing Clint towards the wall, face first, and starting to pat him down for more weapons.

Clint was almost done. His patience was wearing thinner by the second and if he hadn’t been in so much pain standing up on both feet (his damn left body-half was bruised, what the hell was the matter with him, how did he always manage to get himself thrown into cars or tormented by people who didn’t like him?) and lifting his hand above his head (even if it was just the right one, he could still feel the strain it put to the rest of his shoulder girdle), he would have probably just kicked their asses and send them home. Although… Thornton, D. was a bloody good hand-to-hand combatant, if Clint remembered correctly, even by SHIELD standards for operational agents, and judging by Maya’s many other physical qualities, he probably shouldn’t underestimate her, either. So, no tricks while he felt sore from standing up and lifting his one good arm above his head. Not yet. Instead, he just rolled his eyes and did what he did best. Annoy people to hell and back. “I knew you’d love to get your hands down my pants again, sweetheart. Although I wished this wasn’t turning into a devil’s three-way, that’s really not my kind of kinky, especially with the whole incest-thing going on here…” She stiffened even more, he could feel it in the hands that were touching his chest, moving downwards and suddenly freezing. “I’ll make this easy. Yes, there’re things you could sting yourself with down my trousers other than what’s naturally attached to my body.” He felt her stiffen up just as soon as he’d said it and he didn’t even have to look at David to know that the older man was perfectly pissed off by now and close to taking the search over from his cousin. _I probably shouldn’t make them too angry, as long as I don’t know what they’re up to,_ Clint decided silently, _but this is good. They get mad, they let their guard down. Get into their heads. Take your sweet time. You can take those guys, as soon as the odds are right._ The only problematic thing about that was the fact that although he hated Jackson “David” Thornton and had a functioning love-hate-sex-thing going on with Maya, they were still his co-workers and as long as he didn’t have context to this strange encounter, he couldn’t risk killing them. Or injuring them badly. Maybe this was some sort of joke. _Bad one, though._ Well, the Thorntons had many talents, but no one had ever accused them of a decent sense of humour.

He told Maya about his knives casually, even though he hated the idea of handing them over and being completely unprotected. She’d find them, anyway. She was a professional, after all. SHIELD-protégé like the rest of her family. “Army knife, left leg. jack knife, right back pocket of my pants.” She took both blades, continuing to search him anyways. She even opened his sling in order to constrain his hands with a pair of particularly tight cuffs. He resisted the urge to joke on that one, too. He also resisted the urge to cry out when she twisted his arm a little bit further than would have been necessary, locking his jaws to muffle the cry. He should have taken some of those darn pills. If only he’d known he would be forced to do yoga with that arm of his, he would have taken the entire bottle. Maya took her sweet time to make sure he wouldn’t just slip his cuffs. _Bitch._ With all his strength, he forced himself not to turn around in an angry shout and risk everything with a sudden attack. He hated going down without a fight. But he’d hurt enough SHIELD agents for a lifetime and until he knew what the hell was going on here, he probably shouldn’t overreact, even if he got the strong feeling that if there had been some gamma radiation nearby, he might have turned green and murderous right about _now_.

“Clint Barton, you are under arrest for triple homicide, high treason and aiding and abetting a war criminal. Anything you say can or will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right…” - “ _Save it_ , Maya. I know my rights.” - “Do you?” David Thornton took over for his cousin, turning Clint around roughly on his wounded arm and forcing him against the wall with his back, holding him at bay by pressing the barrel of his gun against Clint’s throat. The wall collided with his stupid arm and, _damn_ , that hurt. “Because you have the right to remain silent, Barton, and I’d strongly advise you to use it.”

Clint ignored him as best he could while he watched Maya, who was starting to go through his belongings, searching every inch of his apartment with methodical swiftness. Girl really had some skills. She didn’t break anything, she didn’t even leave his stuff in disorder, putting everything back where she’d found it. If he hadn’t been in the room for this part, he wouldn’t even have noticed someone had been searching. Still, it felt as if she raped him, not literally, of course, but _the hell_ , this was _his_ little piece of the world, his own little sanctuary, and they had _no_ right to be here and to mess with his stuff and to mess with him! He held it back, poured the anger into the thick black pool that had been swirling inside of him for months. “Don’t forget to look in the bathroom,” David reminded her, and nodding, she complied. “Okay. This stopped being funny five minutes ago.” The archer reflected about his dramatically worsening situation for a short while before he concluded that if he had to play along with this ridiculous, primitive knockabout comedy – and he hated the fact that he obviously had decided to do so – he might as well disregard that right to be silent as much as he could, if only to go on their nerves some more.

“Please tell me this is some sort of intervention. ‘Clint, we love you, please stop doing drugs’.” There wasn’t a reaction, so Clint beat on the bush some more. Who had sent them? Fury? Hill? Were they here on their own? No, impossible. The Thorntons hated freelancers. They wouldn’t dare go against protocol. This was official business, nothing personal, even if it felt that way. They didn’t enjoy this any more than him, they were just damn good at following uncomfortable orders. Well, his life sucked at this point. It was only fair that he made theirs a living hell, too. “Maya, you _do_ realize I didn’t take your panties back then, don’t you? Because as I’ve told you like a thousand times already, you probably gave them to one of the other guys you were screwing that…” – “SHUT. UP.” The gun pressed uncomfortably close against Clint’s Adam’s apple by now. Alright. Change of topic. They obviously weren’t authorised to shoot him and as far as Clint’s knowledge about the Thorntons went, he knew they would not disobey a direct order. And they wouldn’t be here for anything else, right?

“Okay, seriously. This is fucking ridiculous. What the hell is your problem? Why are you here?” – “You should really pay more attention. We’re here to arrest you for murdering three people in cold blood, betraying…” – “Yeah, yeah, right, I got that one. Triple homicide, hm? Which ones, if I might ask? If you’re only investigating a triple murder I’d say you haven’t found my dumping ground yet.”

Both looked at him, eyes narrowed. “Oh come on, that one was _funny_! There’s no protocol against laughing! But seriously, Thornton, if you have to lean in so close to me to make sure I don’t try anything funny, at least have your cousin do it. She smells better and actually, I’m far more comfortable with female body contac-“ – “I swear to God, Barton, one more stupid joke and I’ll…” – “You’ll… what? Go against orders, Thornton? Because if you were here to kill me, I’d be dead by now. You’re looking for something, obviously. Maybe I can shorten this. Tell me what you’re searching and I might be able to help.” He lifted his eyebrows, teasing. “You know, this being _my apartment_ and me not being happy with your invasion of _my privacy_ and all… I might actually give you a hand if it makes you go away any quicker.”

Maya returned from the bathroom. “They’re not here, David. He must’ve gotten rid of them.” – “Woah, moment, hey – gotten rid of WHAT??” No answer. Shit, there was probably some protocol to not avoid being compromised in a situation like this by avoiding to talk to your co-worker / suspect. There must be. SHIELD had stupid paperwork for close to EVERYTHING and Clint was damn sure there were some guidelines on how to treat rogue agents. Oh _God_ did he hate this red tape stuff. Where were his special Avenger-buddies, now that he could actually use some rushing in, guns blazing and no questions asked? As if to make fun of him, Maya lifted the little orange pillbox from Clint’s kitchen counter. “But look what I’ve found. That’s pretty strong stuff; usually, you’d need a prescription for those, Barton. Where did you get ‘em, street corner?” _Damnit, Tasha. Seems your little joke didn’t work out this well, did it?_

“Got them at a little place called none-of-your-damn-business.” Clint would rather have knocked his left shoulder against the wall than turned on Tasha. He was in trouble alright, no idea why, but he’d be damned if he dragged his partner down with him. Thornton smiled, strangely. He almost grinned. “I was hoping you would say that, Barton. You’re coming with us.”

“Wait – what?! _What the hell, man?!_ ” Right about now, that David grabbed his left upper arm tightly, tugging at it to move Clint towards the door – without shoes, still in this pyjama pants and sweatshirt – seemed to be the perfect moment to struggle. And he did. He struggled, foolishly, and with a devastating shot of pain, his shoulder came out. Again. It was all that Clint could do to not start screaming, instead, he dropped to his knees in a desperate attempt to keep his cool. Which he couldn’t.

At least they allowed him to put on some pants, socks, shoes and a wrapped a jacket around his hands, before they took him with them – sparing him the embarrassment of walking through HQ in his pyjama bottoms. But Clint was still pissed, absolutely pissed. He was in even more pain than he’d been all morning and he had missed the finish of his _Dog Cops_ episode and most of all, Maya had shoved the pills into a little evidence bag as if he were some sort of junkie. The only thing missing was them making him pee into a jar or performing a full cavity search on him which he didn’t dare to joke about because oh God, maybe they’d forgotten part of the rule book and he’d remind them of it.

“If this is some weird joke and Romanov made you do this in order to throw me a surprise party, I will be royally pissed,” he informed his colleagues while they dragged him down four flights of stairs. They didn’t even get the joke, or if they did, they didn’t care.

  
**II**

SHIELD HQ, NYC | August 19, 2013

Clint didn’t like interrogation rooms. It wasn’t so much a matter of principle (while he had always loved to learn about secrets, he’d always hated to wheedle them out of people just as much as he’d always hated to have people trying to get him to spill his guts) as a question of comfort. He didn’t mind the dark atmosphere, the mirror that was designed to hide a bunch of people watching him from an adjoining room, taking in his every reaction; he didn’t even worry about the blinking camera in the upper left corner that was probably focused on him, feeding the footage to some fat guy in a surveillance room. He, however, hated the door. He hated it so much that he wished he could will it to explode, crack it open with his sheer anger and all the force he knew he could muster if he threw his hatred for prisons in there. Doors that only locked from the outside, like the openings of cages… he _hated_ them. Clint had been in his fair share of cages and prison cells and interrogation rooms. He knew this feeling, this overwhelming sense of entrapment, of intractability and the carny inside of him resented it more than anything else. He hated that there were no windows, no possibility to look out, to see what time of day it was or how much time had passed, to see the weather outside and imagine how the wind would feel on his skin. He liked being able to move about. He liked open spaces. High places. Having the control. That was what being a sniper actually meant. Having the absolute control over a situation, but from afar, being removed from the struggle on the ground, overseeing everything, doing his best to minimalize damage for the close range fighters. Being in an investigation room was nothing at all like that. It got messy, you had to actually _deal_ with people who were right in front of you, you had to outwit them with pure talk. You had to swallow your pride. Clint was containing a lot of pride within himself. He hated pretending that someone else had the upper hand, that they’d broken him while he was waiting for his way out. That just wasn’t him. Now, he was hand- and foot-cuffed to a chair and the damn table like some street thug or, rather, like a category ‘A’ prisoner in supermax. Did they seriously consider him a threat? Damn, this was SHIELD. This was his home, in a way. His _family_ , even that word was far too… cuddly. But yeah. He had trusted this organization, at least he’d trusted them more than anyone else except for Natasha. He had trusted in that they wouldn’t just burn him like that. And now, within half an hour, he had turned from reliable asset to traitor, to threat? _Well, depending on what they’ve planned for me next, I might very well become one._ If this was supposed to be a surprise party, it was the worst one in the history of surprise parties. By far. _Give me a bow and just one arrow and I’ll get out of here. Shit, forget the bow, just cut me lose. I can’t freakin’ move in these things._

If they thought he’d just start talking if they kept him locked up in a sealed room long enough, they were hilariously mistaken. Yes, he wasn’t as calm as he pretended to be. Being locked in had always put a strain on Clint’s nerves. But he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing that in his eyes, his famous sharp blue eyes that never missed anything, eyes that were already weary with too little sleep, too much pain and a growing sense of confusion and distrust. So he just closed his lids, shutting the world out and going to his happy place. Every agent had one, or ought to have one. If they didn’t, torture would be a real problem. Even with the happy place it was. Torture could – would – break you, sooner or later, if the right people applied it with the right ‘tact’. The right people made sure you couldn’t go to the happy place by drawing you back out constantly, by systematically destroying whatever little refuge you kept within yourself. Luckily for Clint, he knew that those ‘right people’ were usually not used on SHIELD agents. Unfortunately, he also knew that SHIELD employed some of those ‘interrogation specialists’, just for very grave situations, of course. _’He’s fallen from his bike again. Clint’s always been a clumsy one, haven’t you, Clint. Too damn stupid to ride that bike. But you’ll learn.’ - ‘Yeah. Right. And then I’ll start falling down the stairs again.’_

He had been there, at breaking point or so close to it that he’d been ready to beg for death. So, yeah, he wasn’t really scared right now. This situation, right here, didn’t have him worried. Maybe a little bit. It was unsettling, true. Something about all of this felt… _wrong_. Deeply wrong. Usually, he had to make a mess first before they dragged his ass to Fury’s office. And now Barton was sitting around here, completely oblivious of what he was supposed to have done and no one showed up. They just let him stew. He didn’t believe the murder-investigation-story for a second. That was bull. Something the Thorntons had been told to say in order to make him come with them. Maybe they had even thought that it was the truth… Would explain why they’d handled him so harshly. Fury was good at keeping people in the loop and giving them fake briefings, at manipulation and deceit. He was ready to make the tough calls, to use his assets in any way. That what made him so great at his job and it was also why no one in their right mind would ever trust the guy. Maybe this, whatever this was, was above Clint’s pay-grade and that was the reason why he hadn’t been informed about what was going on - yet. They wouldn’t just burn him like that, would they? Whatever the hell the score was, Hawkeye was smelling a big fat secret. And he hated secrets. Actually, Clint loved secrets, but only if he got to know them. He hated being kept out of the loop, in the dark. He could only hope that someone would come eventually before he starved. Well, he probably wouldn’t starve, exsiccation was so much faster. And until then, there was no real point in sitting there, stiffly, agonized by his dislocated shoulder and the bruising on his ribs and his pelvis and his leg. His entire left side was one big, fat hematoma. But at the moment, the shoulder was winning the contest of ‘who’s pissing Barton off the most’. _Twice in four fucking days._ That had to be some sort of record, right? Well, maybe not exactly. But Barton knew his luck and he had the feeling that he was on a roll. Not the good kind, obviously, he never was on one of those. He had always been a trouble-magnet, even as a little kid. That had never changed. The only thing that had changed, eventually, was that his first attacker ever had actually preferred physical torture over the psychological one. And Thornton or whoever was calling the shots here (Clint doubted that it was Thornton, the guy was a freakin’ boy scout, there was no way he’d treat a co-worker like this, not even Clint…), it seemed, preferred a sound mixture. Well, he wasn’t freaked out nearly enough right now to talk or beg or plead guilty or whatever it was they were waiting for. And although he was in constant, ever worsening pain, he had been much worse. _Screw you guys. Screw all of you._

Clint laid his head back, watching the ceiling as if they’d stream his favourite movie up there. Actually, he had chosen to go there as his happy place. _The Holiday._ No gun fires, no action, just two beautiful actresses and their male counterparts finding true love in the Christmassy versions of L.A. and Surrey. He’d seen it so many times that he could actually recite it in his head, line by line, every note of the soundtrack, every facial expression of every actor. He was careful not to move his lips while he started reciting the movie in his head, word by word, inwardly humming the soundtrack melodies. It made for a good distraction. Many people made the mistake of thinking a happy place should just be a place you imagined, a frozen little piece of heaven or paradise or whatever. Clint knew better from experience. The best happy places had some sort of plot, of storyline, nothing too complicated, but something you could hold on to, something you could cling to with your very fingertips if need be. That was why movies made for so great happy places as long as you could still concentrate on that many aspects. The worse the torture, the smaller your happy place would have to become, eventually shrinking down to one person and even further, like zooming in on a detail. For Clint, that had been a small golden speckle in Natasha’s green irides, too small for most people to even notice, but he knew that speckle. For now, however, he was still able to concentrate on details and on music and on characters and his favourite movie was perfect to kill both his boredom and his nervosity.

_“I have found almost everything ever written about love to be true. Shakespeare said ‘Journeys end in lovers meeting’. Oh, what an extraordinary thought… Personally, I have not experienced anything remotely close to that but I am more than willing to believe Shakespeare had. I suppose I think about love more than anyone really should; I’m constantly amazed by its sheer power to alter and define our lives. It was Shakespeare who also said ‘Love is blind’. Now that is something I know to be true. For some, quite inexplicably, love fades. For others, love is simply lost. But then of course, love can also be found, even if just for the night. And then there’s another kind of love, the cruelest kind…”_ After a while, he just closed his eyes and zoomed out, left the enclosed room behind.

He must have actually dozed off, because when he came to, there was the smell of hot coffee and the sound of someone saying his name. Clint jerked up, regretting it at once as he tugged at his useless arm by accident. This time, he didn’t have the restraint to stay calm. There was a whimper and then there was a loud “Fuck!”, before he found his self-control. But he was pissed. Now they had managed to make him angry. _Pretty_ angry. His eyes flashed up at the man in front of him, the idiot who had woken him up and who had caused all this trouble and who had pissed him off so seriously.

“Rise and shine, Agent Barton.” Clint blinked several times. There was something in front of his face, so close he could have leaned forward to lick it, or spit on it, or bump his head against it forehead first. Another face. Grim and black and severe, the only thing making Fury’s expression slightly creepier than his namesake emotion all over it was the black leather eye patch. Clint had always thought that losing an eye was one of the most frightening things he could imagine. But then again, he wasn’t Fury. He was an archer and if he couldn’t see what he was aiming at, there really was no point in picking up a bow, was there?

Clint managed to stay adamant. He didn’t even know where he took the strength from. He just did and he could see how it pissed Fury off on end. “I hope you’re damn comfortable, Agent, seeing as you managed to wander off to Narnia without even asking for my permission.” Clint frowned. It was a little frown, the one where he got but the smallest vertical crease on his forehead, directly above the nose bridge. “Dunno what you’re dreamin’ ‘bout at nigh’, Sir, but I sure as hell wasn’t visitin’ no freaking fairy-tale-country.” Barton yawned openly – if they wanted him to cover his mouth, they could _fucking_ cut him loose already! – and sat up a little bit straighter. Fury hated insubordination and that was exactly why Barton used it now. And it worked. Fury clearly thought about backhanding him or having him flocked or whatever punishment crossed his mind right now. Situations like this particular one were one of the reasons why he seldom briefed Clint personally, even if the mission was top secret. He couldn’t work with Clint’s rebellious attitude, at least not most of the time. And why should he? There were handlers for that sort of interaction. Coulson had always been good at ignoring Clint’s jokes or at smiling about them ever so slightly that it only showed in his eyes and only if one knew what to look for. Clint knew, fortunately. That was one of the reasons why Coulson and he had gotten along so well. Phil had had a firm grasp on Clint’s humour and had never judged the ex-carny by his attitude, but rather by his accomplishments. And Clint had seen Coulson’s calm, seemingly uncaring demeanour as what it really was: Genuine concern, a pretty dark sense of humour and a warm, compassionate soul paired with a sharp, ingenious mind. Phil had been one of these guys who looked completely regular, just another accountant in a suit. But underneath it all, he’d been one of the best agents Clint had ever had the fortune of working together with. The only handler he’d ever really _liked_ working with, actually. Phil could be trusted and for a spy, that meant a lot. Phil had had his agents’ backs, he’d looked out for them and he had always made sure they came back home at the end of the day. No matter what happened out there, in action, Clint had known that Coulson was back here, just a comlink away, and no matter what hell broke loose, Coulson would get it and he would back up Clint’s stupid ass decisions that got the job done most of the time even if they didn’t mix well with SHIELD protocol and if something, God forbid, might happen, Coulson had been the one to come for Clint, in person if he had to, even defying direct orders. He’d always come for Clint. And Clint, who could rebel against the man and hate him and throw dirty jokes his direction while they were conversing over the comlink (and he knew that he was abashing Phil which had been the whole point) and ignore all his orders and laugh at him if the guy had serious concerns about a mission, had always felt a deep sense of respect for Coulson. He hadn’t shown it, of course, he never showed stuff like that. But it had been there. He had trusted Coulson and he knew that Coulson had in turn trusted him to make the right calls and to be a good agent, even if he would never be good at sticking to protocol. They had been great together. Barton had been able to look up to Coulson and dismiss his plans anyway and despite all their arguments, there had never been bad blood between them. God, he missed Phil, so badly… Phil wouldn’t have stood idly by and watch Fury confront Clint one on one. He would have been in this very room, right now, he would have bitched till Clint’s feet and hands were free and then he would have sat beside him and told Fury to cut the crap and lay his cards on the table. And Fury, who had felt a similar respect for Coulson because Coulson was just that, he was good and responsible and loyal as hell, would have complied. And they would have worked it out together, like they always did.

But Coulson was dead and it was all Clint’s fault.

Fury’s fists hit the metal table so hard that it probably would have bounced off the floor like Clint’s tennis ball, hadn’t it been screwed onto there. “Do you have any idea the amount of trouble you’re in, Barton?”  
Clint’s frown got deeper. He knew that being cocky probably wasn’t going to help much in the long run, but if he let his mask fall down now, he would have left the victory to his boss. Also, that question was just so much of a cliché that he was sure Fury picked it on purpose, to hocus him. And he was too angered to just give up, because, hell, he didn’t deserve this treatment. He’d been working for SHIELD for years now and had that earn him any extra credit? Obviously, no. “I’ve been here for approximately… four hours? That I’ve been awake. Meaning that either one of you pop my damn shoulder back in or… well, I don’t know if that’s an issue, but I personally have never heard of a one-armed sniper. But hey, there’s a first for everything, right?” Fury looked at him as if he had to fight the urge to smack his agent right then and there. But instead, he unbent and beckoned Thornton over.

“You break it, you bought it, Agent. Fix ‘im up.” – “You’re kiddin’ me, right?” Clint couldn’t help the rage building up inside him. That bastard Thornton had renewed his injury in the first place. For no good reason, just because he was a little bit pissed off at that moment. _Well, guess what, asshole, now I’m the one who’s pissed and if you dare touch me, you sick son-of-a-bitch…_ Thornton probably had a pretty good idea what was happening behind Clint’s steel-blue eyes. If he did, if he comprehended the unspoken threat, he didn’t show it, just like he didn’t show any satisfaction. That man was just too decent to be true. And braver than Clint had given him credit for.

“You should have taken more of your happy pills, Barton. Might have spared you some of this.” It didn’t even sound like mocking, just like a statement. Clint tried his best to hate him. He so much wanted to hate that bastard. But he couldn’t, not fully, because damn, the son-of-a-bitch was following orders like a good little soldier. Barton made a mental note to himself that no matter what happened to him, he’d make sure that Thornton never met Captain America because seriously, the two of them together would be too hard to bear for anyone else. David laid one of his hands on Clint’s shoulder, the other one on his upper arm, taking a solid stance and making sure his fingers clawed into Clint as though he was trying to rip him apart. “On a second thought, don’t…” The archer started, but it was already too late. One sudden, brutal pull, he screamed up in agony, and with a soft ‘plopp’, the arm was where it belonged, back in its socket again, sickening and horrifying and simple. For a few seconds, all he could see was stars dancing in front of a red background while his ears were ringing with the sounds of a million mobile phones and he could all but puke on the table in front of him.

“Feel any better, Agent?” Thornton had been above mockery. Fury, apparently, was not. “Go to hell,” Clint hissed between gritted teeth, blinking away any tear that was trying to betray him. He didn’t care that Fury was his boss and one of the scariest men alive, he just hated him right now. Hating Fury had always been easy, although Clint never had made a particular point out of it. The director of SHIELD wasn’t just some spy, he was _the_ spy. If one of the rookies had complained in Clint’s presence that he felt like Fury wasn’t telling him everything about his upcoming first mission, Clint would have laughed and told the rookie to either get used to it right now, shut it and be prepared to meet his end kicking and screaming, or run as fast and as far as he could.

And then he would have told Tasha and she would have laughed, too.

_Tasha._ Where was she? Had she been taken, too? It had been approximately five hours, at least, since the Thornton-squad had come to pick Clint up. If she wasn’t being interrogated in an adjoining room (and what were the odds, with Fury being here – if he was suspecting Tasha, too, he’d leave Barton to Hill and take Romanov on himself), where the hell was she? Clint couldn’t imagine that the Widow would just leave him behind, not after everything they’d been through together, not after all their history. And no one, not even Fury, had the balls to tell Natasha ‘no’ when she wanted something. So she was probably standing on the other side of that mirror, watching over him like a tiger mum over her cub, seething with anger. The thought was somewhat comforting.

What was it they were accusing him of? Triple homicide. He had no idea what that crap was about, he hadn’t killed anyone that he knew of, not recently, that was – especially not three people. That was a very specific number. He’d remember three dead. The other allegations, however, sounded a lot more serious. High treason and aiding and abetting a war criminal? Unless Stark had managed to start a war within the last four days or Banner had raised hell somewhere because Tony had finally managed to poke him in the right place for green results, he had no idea what all of this was about. Natasha was a war criminal, probably, somewhere. She’d lived through enough to be, but she never talked about it and although Clint loved secrets, as long as he was let in on them, Tasha and he had some sort of unspoken pact. They had never actually said anything but that had not been necessary. Certain things, certain topics, just were off limits: Childhood, training, victimization, feelings and, last but certainly not least – guilt. Sometimes one of them would open up only so slightly, pull out one little anecdote or just a sentence, a thought, the tiniest scrap of a memory to share. And the other one would honour that trust by shutting up and listening and resisting any urge to give unwanted input, except for the extremely rare occasions when there was an attendant question about the their personal opinion involved.  
Clint didn’t even consider Thor or Steve. True, of course, Thor could have messed up somehow, but the guy was hardly a criminal, not even when provoked. And the Captain? Oh, please. Cap would be great in a war zone but he’d probably spend his days ENDING the war and STOPPING the war criminals. Rule-breaking wasn’t exactly Cap’s speed.

“Sir, if this is some sort of over-the-top warning shot because of what happened with the ice machine in the cafeteria, let me assure you…” Fury lifted his eyebrows and folded his arms in front of his chest, watching Clint lurking. “Yes, Barton? Continue?”

The archer stopped right then and there. “This isn’t about that,” he concluded flat. Stupid. Of course it wasn’t about that, Fury wouldn’t send two specialists, have Clint detained on false charges and dragged to HQ with a dislocated shoulder for a soft ice cream maker. Clint cast away the idea as quickly as it had come to him. Had been a long shot anyways and although Hill had clearly been not amused about that stupid machine exploding (damnit, he was an agent, not an engineer and he had already made a mental note to ask Stark for help next time he planned a similar prank again) and sort of flooding the entire cafeteria, Clint was sure she had no idea whose fault it had been that her chocolate chip sundae had not just been vinegar-mushroom-ice, but, well, sort of all over the place. And with all over the place, he meant the floor. And the walls. And Hill’s new blouse. And the rookies at the adjoining table. God, the sight. Had made him smile for days after the first shock had worn off. Seriously, though, that woman needed to brighten up badly. Even though, in hindsight, the prank had not only been poorly implemented, it had also been some poor judgement on Barton’s behalf. One didn’t screw with Maria Hill. At least not if there was the tiniest chance she might ever find out. Hopefully she wasn’t standing behind that mirror because. That. Would. Just. Be. Awkward.

Not that he wanted to tell Fury about any of that.

And then it hit him, right in the stomach. It had been so obvious, so logical why he had been brought here that he hadn’t been able to wrap his mind around it. _Of course._  
“This…” Clint gulped the panic down as best he could. “This is about Loki, isn’t it.” Suddenly, he felt sick. He had avoided his shrink for months. Well, actually… he hadn’t avoided him. He had sat on the guy’s couch. He had listened (okay, pretended to listen) to all his crap. He had talked about his childhood. Nothing real, mind you. Nothing that had actually happened to him. Basically, he had given him the plot of any feel-good movie he had been able to think of, right after he had realized in their first session that Dr Martin didn’t own a TV. No TV. At the age of twenty-two. How on earth was he supposed to take that clown for real? So he tested him. Gave him movie plot after movie plot. Every nice little family show he could think of. Even some plot elements from Dog Cops. He talked and talked and talked, without ever saying anything, making up an entire life like he probably should have had it and whoever would have listened to him, actually listened, would have realized that his stories were a bunch of major bull. So yeah. Basically, he had avoided talking to his shrink, really talking, because he had been sure that the guy wasn’t really listening anyways and because he never talked about his actual problems, his actual childhood, not even to Tasha. Some things you just had to keep to yourself. Like his nightmares. They had started right after the battle of New York and frankly, at first, Clint hadn’t thought much by it. He had gone through a trauma. He knew how that always warped his mind. Ecuador, for example, had been with him for years. Hell, sometimes even these days, people would say something and it would all just come back in one gigantic rush, one flash-back that he couldn’t hold back. Even stuff from his childhood that he had tossed into the black, black pool of his soul a lifetime ago could come up eventually and that was freakin’ normal. So yeah, of course he had been dreaming of Loki. He had been dreaming about being under his spell. At first, they had just been stupid dreams, completely out of touch with reality. Nightmares. Hellish, but he could live with that. He was a grown man and this hadn’t been his first rodeo.  
The problem with Loki, however, wasn’t that he had screwed Barton over. Clint had been screwed over before. He had been hurt before. He had been tortured. Conflicted. He had done things he regretted, so many of them that he had lost count. But never before had he been forced to do stuff that went against his very nature. Stark made a point of calling Tasha and Clint ‘two world-class assassins’, but that was because he hadn’t read Clint’s file right. Clint wasn’t an assassin, not really. He was a spy, a sniper, he had been undercover more times than he could remember, he had been forced to hurt people. His whole damn life had been just one big battle, he sometimes thought. And yes, he had killed quite a few people in action. He wasn’t proud of it, actually he hated himself for every last drop of blood that stuck on his hands. To this day he knew how many they had been (sixty-seven), how they had died, what his reasons had been to take that final shot (usually, it had been either them or him, either them or the civilians they were threatening, either them or another agent – either them or _Tasha_ ), if he would have had another choice. The answer to that last question was as simple as adamant. _No._ He knew that and it was the only way he could cope with his ledger at all, the only way he could look into the mirror, manage to draw the next breath. He knew that what he’d done had been the only, the last choice. With Loki in his head, that question had been meaningless, completely mute. He didn’t care whom he hurt or how many he killed or how much havoc he caused, as long as it served Loki’s cause.He had done anything he could think of, had used every last little trick up his sleeve to bring down SHIELD to its knees and even if he’d been under Loki’s spell, there hadn’t been orders. He hadn’t needed orders. He had known what he wanted to accomplish and he’d gone for it, like he always did, the difference being that the goal had changed and that _he_ had changed. He didn’t care any more and even today, weeks after Tasha had brought him back, there was a little part of him that had stopped caring, that just wanted to turn it all off, the guilt and the rage and the love and the hate and just be calm again, be at peace again. Just like that knowledge started to crawl under his skin, his nightmares had started to change and twist until they finally were one last nightmare, the worst of all nightmares. And somehow, his subconscious had decided to stick with that one as if it was a well-deserved punishment and play it in his head, over and over and over again until he finally stopped caring or at least told himself that he had stopped caring. Who cared about stupid dreams, even if they had him wake up screaming, drenched in sweat and forced to relieve his twisting stomach into the toilet, EVERY FUCKING SINGLE TIME?!

Only twice had Clint been given a direct kill order. Only twice in his life. The first time he had been twenty-two, a young, but already extremely capable agent and if one trusted Fury (and at that time, Clint had actually been naïve enough to do so) the only one who could actually be used on that mission, according to his age, height, build, training and specific skills. He hadn’t questioned SHIELD back then. He had gone to Budapest, infiltrated the Royal Palace, sought out his target. And then he had strayed from his plan. He had talked to her, undercover of course, danced with her, flirted with her, tried everything in his power to get to know her and when she finally left the ballroom, she had given him one first, sweet kiss. Which meant nothing, because she hadn’t meant to kiss him, she had kissed his undercover alias. He knew she was one of the deadliest people he had ever encountered. He had been cocky, over-confident, and yet, he had succeeded to trick her, put a bug on her dress. He wanted to proove himself, but there was also one part of him that just knew… he couldn’t take the shot. He had never done that before, killed a human being. His hope had been that she’d be awful, that meeting her would somehow justify acting on Fury’s orders. It didn’t. Back then, his ledger was clean apart from one thing… one thing he regretted till today.  
He hadn’t killed Natasha that night, as she stood next to her buyers, ready to give them highly classified SHIELD intel that she had acquired by murdering two agents. He had seen her. She hadn’t moved. It would have been easy. The perfect shot. But he couldn’t do it, couldn’t take it.  
Years later, Tasha had asked him why. Why he had disobeyed back then. The answer was the same he had given to Fury when his boss dropped another assassination-order on his desk and wanted to know why the fuck his golden boy suddenly told him ‘no’ on a mission. ‘Because that is not who I ever want to be. And if that doesn’t correspond to my job description, Sir, you might as well fire me right now.’ Fury hadn’t understood at first. Coulson, however, had gotten it at once. And Barton had known by the glance Coulson shot him in this very second, that he had just made a friend. Phil had been impressed. He had been proud of his agent, proud as a handler, because Clint had made the right choice.

Barton was a thief. A spy. A liar – oh, he was a brilliant liar. He was a fighter, brutal and swift and deadly. Yes, he even was a killer if need be. But he had never been a cold blooded murderer.

There had always been a part of him, a small, insignificant piece of his self that knew how Barney would have wanted him to turn out. How his mum would have wanted him to turn out. He had disappointed both of them, his mum far worse than Barney, but in the end, he felt they might still understand that he was doing what he was doing in order to do good. To help people. SHIELD said they were after world peace and even if Barton knew that that was probably only one tenth of the truth, he still hoped that what he was doing helped in some way. Tasha had always known about this weakness of his and she had always been mildly amused by it, he figured, because she got that strange little crooked smile whenever someone called Clint an assassin. He really was a funny guy, so, figures. An agent who couldn’t follow orders. A fighter who got himself beaten up regularly and refused medical treatment. A sniper who wouldn’t take the kill shot as long as he could possibly do something else. In short – Barton was a fucking moron and he knew it. God, he had already been so messed up before Loki started playing with his head.

Loki hadn’t just pulled him out, even if that was what Clint had told Tasha. Maybe because it was easier at that time or because he didn’t know how else to talk about it. But he had been there, the entire time. He only remembered bits and moments, they came back to him even now, little pieces producing a freakishly scary puzzle. Sometimes they came to him in his dreams. Other times they just flashed through his consciousness when he was awake. Whatever he’d done under Loki’s spell, it had been his choice. Loki hadn’t pulled him out, not completely. He had just given Clint another perspective, a new goal to fight for, and taken away the last small rest of a conscience that held Barton together. And then he had unleashed him onto the world and anything that had happened from there had been Clint’s fault. His fault. His own damn fault. His choices. _He_ had gotten them all killed, friends and colleagues and yes, Coulson. The one true friend he’d had besides Tasha. He had let him die. He might as well have killed the man himself. And he would never be cleansed of that because there was nothing that could make up for his deeds. He had always believed that people were defined by their actions, by the choices they made. Maybe that was why he had been able to work so well alongside Tasha all these years. She had chosen to be someone else than the Russian spy and killer she’d been brought up to be, a better person, a good person. She had earned his respect and his trust and his deep admiration and at some point even his love, although he would never tell her that because… because of Loki.

He didn’t want to talk about Loki. Ever. Again. Not think his name, not see his face, not feel the sting of his sceptre on his chest.

And then Fury said something that took Clint’s last desperate hope of ever getting his head back to normal and smashed it around like a ragdoll.  
“Actually, Loki is one of the reason’s you’re here today, Agent, but we’ll come back to that later. Before we get to our favourite Asgardian, I’ll have to ask you some questions.”

“Of course you do, Sir.” The words were ash in his mouth. Stale. He wished himself far away, but his happy place had just gone up into flames and was burning inside of him.

Fury dropped three photographs on the table, glossy prints. Clint’s eyes flickered towards them, looking at the three portraits. “You know these people, Agent?” – “The left one’s General Henning. Tried to enforce some sort of bill to regulate mutants, implant them with trackers like whales or lock them up in heavily guarded camps or something. Second one’s Senator Alvarez, I think he was some sort of buddy of the former, right? Helped him with the bill and stuff. I don’t know the young guy, though. Who’s he?” – “That’s Henning’s second-in-command, a Colonel Ross.”

Clint frowned only so slightly. “Ross. That name, it sounds almost… familiar.” He looked up at Fury, let his gaze wander on to Thornton and back to his boss. “I should know that name, shouldn’t I?” Fury snorted in disgust. At first, Clint wondered if the man with the eye-patch was angry at him, but it seemed that for once, he had found another target for his disdain. “General Thaddeus Ross is the man responsible for the Hulk situation.” Clint’s mouth opened, but he couldn’t respond.  
“And this Colonel Ross is…” – “A nephew. Son of his brother.”

Clint considered that information for half a second, then he frowned a little bit more and shifted in his seat. “Okay. So what about those three? I mean, I don’t even see the link. Sure, two were in the military and one is befriending the other but unless they’re all in on that mutant bill I don’t even see what the hell…” – “They WERE all in on the mutant bill.” Fury pulled the second chair over the floor with a shrieking sound and sat down opposite Clint. “I don’t understand, Sir… they _were_ in on that bill? As in – they changed their minds?”

Thornton snorted. “You’ll have to try harder than that, Barton.” Fury shot the agent a sharp glance and David fell silent at once. Clint, however, blinked twice. He wasn’t exactly a genius, but he wasn’t stupid either. He was damn well able to count to three. “Wait – ‘were’ as in they’re _dead_?! And you think…” His eyes grew wide with surprise. “You think _I_ did that? THAT’s what I’m being charged with, killing three strangers, one of whom I’d never seen in my entire life? On what grounds?!”

Fury curled his upper lip. Then he nodded to Thornton, who produced three more pictures from the paper folder he took from the table. Crime scene photos, three men dead: Ross had been shot on the way to the parking lot, Henning was only halfway covered by his bathrobe, lying right next to his hot tub and Senator Alvarez hadn’t made it out of his mistress’ flat alive. But the locations weren’t what was startling about the pictures. “Arrows.” Again, Clint’s voice sounded strangely calm, almost unemotional. _Feels as if someone else said that,_ he mused, but it wasn’t even a funny thought. “You think those are mine. That I, what, ambushed three men and took them out with the one weapon that screams ‘me’ because they were interested in politics?”

This was absurd. They realized it was absurd, right? “Where have you been for the last two days?” – “Home. _Someone_ put me on medical leave, for three weeks, to be exact,” Clint felt rebellion rise inside him. He was still in pain and he was tired and this was a freaking joke, right? He didn’t kill nobody! They had the wrong guy!  
“Can anyone vouch for that?” – “Natasha… Agent Romanov. She visited me the day before yesterday. Evening. She checked in on me at about 20.00 and then stayed for approximately three hours. I can’t tell exactly when she left because I dozed off and when I woke she was gone.” – “Other than that, you were alone?”

Clint forced himself not to shrug. The urge was strong, but he knew that he wouldn’t like the feeling. “Yes. I was sleeping. Eating. Watching TV. I dunno. I wasn’t exactly feeling like going somewhere after being thrown into a goddamn car!” – “Agent Thornton, take your partner and interview Agent Barton’s neighbours if they remember hearing the TV from Mr Seymour’s flat at the times of the murders.” – “Sir,” Thornton interjected, “you do realize that it would be substantial evidence at best and would never hold…” – “Yes, thank you Agent. That would be all.” Thornton nodded stiffly, gave Clint an I’ll-figure-out-the-truth-and-if-you-went-rogue-I’ll-gut-you-look and got out.

“Sir, if I may – “ – “You may not, Barton.” Fury stood up and started to pace behind Clint. Maybe he did it on purpose, maybe he didn’t mean anything by it, but he made Barton extremely edgy. He then started to explain how the three men had been killed within the last twelve days, shot by a sniper with bow and arrow. The shots were long distance, but almost freakishly precise. Also, they had found surveillance tapes of the killer, nothing to go by really, but SHIELD’s technicians were the best. They estimated height and weight of the sniper. They matched Clint almost too perfectly. And then there was something else. When he had killed Alvarez, the suspect hadn’t had the luxury of a secure rooftop. He had had to break into the mistress’ apartment, knock out three heavily armed security guards all by himself and take the shot at close range. There was footage of the fight, far better quality than the other tape. Height and built again matched Clint, but there was something else, something about the way the killer fought, oddly familiar, and how he held the bow… Clint couldn’t stop looking at it. “I’m not a specialist in this particular field such as yourself,” Fury pointed out, “so I’d like your opinion. You claim that’s not you. So, who is it? What can you tell me about this guy?”

Clint shook his head. He felt his heart sink into his lap and he couldn’t say anything in his own defence. “He’s a pro. One of the best archers in the world, possibly, those extremely long distance shots, complete darkness and still hilariously precise according to the coroner … apart from the result, that was beautifully done. I’ll have to give him that. He’s also been trained at close range fighting, but he rather takes his bow in with him, using it as a melee weapon and switching back to long-range combat as soon as possible. Even in confined spaces he still manages to get the upper hand over three stronger, highly trained opponents and he doesn’t even need to kill them. I mean, he’s smart, he’s ruthless – seeing an opportunity, he’ll likely take it. He’s likely been trained in the army or by some sort of paramilitary organisation, but he has some moves in there that are clearly no standard fighting style. He’s fast, he’s skilled. He shows mercy where he can, not killing those bodyguards or the mistress. He came for one target, he eliminated it, and then he left. I even know who trained him. I’d recognize that style anywhere, how he’s holding the bow, shooting… But that’s just…”

Something in him broke. He had been out of it for most of the last few days. He had been dreaming again, a lot of awful stuff, and he’d blamed his injuries for that. But that guy… he knew him. “Sir, you’re right.” With a pale face, Clint stared at Fury. “I think that’s… me. But it can’t be. I mean, I know, no alibi, but Sir, I don’t have a bow. Tasha took my bows, every last one of them, to make sure I didn’t practice while on leave. I don’t have a murder weapon.” So that’s what the Thorntons had been looking for all along. Made sense now. They had been looking for his bow and arrows, in order to compare them to the murder weapons. And they hadn’t found anything because there was nothing to be found.

Clint wanted to say something more. Ask Fury what he thought this meant. Anything. _Do something, Barton, you dummy. You just basically admitted to a murder. THREE murders! The least you can do is try to fix this. Come one. Fix it. Fix it. But how? Doesn’t matter how. Fix it._

The door burst open and in came Natasha, her green eyes almost black with rage. Wow. He always forgot how gorgeous she was when he pissed her off. “What the hell?” She looked like she was about to engage in a shouting match with Fury, but he waved her off coldly. “Shut up, Romanov, before you say something you might regret. We’re taking Barton into custody.” – “Sir, with all due respect, this is bullsh-“ – “You open your mouth one more time, Romanov, I’ll put you into one of these cells, too. Let you blow off some steam overnight.” Her fists shook violently, but Tasha stayed silent, held herself back by what looked like sheer will. Clint looked at her. Smiled. He tried to reassure her as best he could by just smiling at her, moving his lips to tell her he would be fine, it would all be okay.

She didn’t look convinced. And how could she have been? He didn’t believe it himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ross had an nephew... yeah, we know. To many Rosses out there. We're working on that.  
> Also: Noooooooo! Clint is losing his mind again! Or is he? Honestly, we don't know. 
> 
> Next time at 'Carnival of Rust': Nominate your favourite Thornton. Get a party hat and... well. Enjoy a drunken Tony Stark. No one else does.


	5. 4. Brilliant Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a party. And a cake. The cake is not a lie. Also, Bruce has a home and a job and didn't know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** There will be booze, depression, triggers of abuse as a child and some mild, non-graphic violence. And someone, shocking as that may seem, is NOT attracted to Natasha. All in all this is mostly a fluff-chapter, so if you're not really up to that... you know the drill. This is a Bruce-chapter, so there might be some feelings of anger. Figures, huh?
> 
> Also, party hats are mandatory. Tolerance towards Tony Stark is not.

  
**4\. Brilliant Mistake**

_He thought he was the King of America_  
 _Where they pour Coca Cola just like vintage wine_  
 _Now I try hard not to become hysterical_  
 _But I'm not sure if I am laughing or crying_  
 _I wish that I could push a button_  
 _And talk in the past and not the present tense_  
 _And watch this hurtin' feeling disappear_  
 _Like it was common sense_  
 _It was a fine idea at the time_  
 _Now it's a brilliant mistake_

_But it was just a boulevard of broken dreams_  
 _A trick they do with mirrors and with chemicals_  
 _The words of love in whispers_  
 _And the axe of love in screams_  
 _I wish that I could push a button_  
 _And talk in the past and not the present tense_  
 _And watch this lovin' feeling disappear_  
 _Like it was common sense_

_I was a fine idea at the time_  
 _Now I'm a brilliant mistake_

 

SHIELD HQ & Stark Tower, NYC | August 22, 2013

Bruce didn’t know what he should think. He had been told to go to Fury’s office and quite frankly he had expected nearly everything: From being told that he was too much a risk to take or to just fucking hand over his goddamn blood or to start publishing again. He wouldn’t have been worried if Fury had asked him to keep his lab cleaner, ‘cause he planned a home story on them all. Avengers assemble in the kitchen, we gotta do something about your image!  
When he had gotten in, Fury had been royally pissed. You’d been able to see that by the way his...well. Alright. You hadn’t been able to see it. It wasn’t possible, it was freaking Nick _THE SPY_ Fury and you never saw his anger if he didn’t want you to see it. He seemed calm and collected and just that tad bit annoyed. Without that tad he would have been freaking everybody out, ‘cause he NEVER was happy or content. He was Nick Fury. He probably changed names and took his eyepatch off when he went to visit what kind of freakish private life he might have left. But Bruce could smell it. He went inside and something in him roared and screamed at him to get the fuck out of there. It was pretty hard to stay and to just clean his glasses for a moment.  
Bruce supposed that there was an order to take him down. He expected snipers and some kind of gas-attack and he just hoped that the nice receptionist would make it out in time.

What he hadn’t expected was to be handed a piece of paper and the offhand comment that Fury was NOT his official mail address.  
Huh. So he wasn’t the problem. Good? Probably good. Not his business anyway.  
He stared down on the document and couldn’t really make any sense out of it. He read the lines and then he read them again and his heartbeat slowed down and he could hear the blood in his ears. He didn’t care about Fury’s stink of fury anymore.  
“Doctor Banner? DOCTOR BANNER?”  
He looked up, startled. “Yes… yes? Sorry… what… what is it?”  
“Shoo, Doctor.” Fury waved his hands, like Bruce were a little dog, that wouldn’t leave to go outside for a piss. “Out! I have other things to do than watching you read. Which I thought you were faster at.”  
“Yes… a minute… a JARVIS-Minute.” Bruce put a hand to his head and then looked up again. “I am sorry, Director Fury, but I don’t understand.”  
“And here I was thinking you might have a brain. A functioning one. You can read, I have been told?”  
“Yes… yes…”  
“And you have a working understanding of the English language?”  
“....Yeah… at least that’s what I’ve been told, but….”  
“Then you should be able to work this one out on your own, don’t you think?”  
“SIR! Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to… Sir, this document says that I am a citizen of the United States of America.”  
“It especially makes you a citizen of New York. Buy a yankee-cap.”  
“But… how….”

Fury grounded his teeth. “I suppose Miss Potts will be more than willing to tell you about that. She’s waiting outside. Now SHOO!”  
Bruce let himself be shooed, clutching the paper to his chest. That was… huh. Big, he supposed. And he still didn’t know how it had happened.He went outside, He wrang his hands, careful not to crumble the paper. That was….that was something. He looked at it again, read it over and over and still didn’t know what to say. _We hereby declare Dr. Dr. Dr. Robert Bruce Banner to be a citizen of the United States of America. His past crimes are pardoned and he will be-_ Yadda-Yadda, like Tony would say. He couldn’t quite understand how this had happened. What… and how… He didn’t know what to do with this thing. Should he put it on the wall? He didn’t have his Doctorate-Certificates any more (he supposed that Ross had had quite a nice fire with these), but this looked quite similar. Oh boy. He wanted to put something on the wall, that told him that he was… not a thing anymore. Not something the government, the military, ROSS owned. Oh boy. His heart really shouldn’t beat that hard. He paused, leaned against the wall and tried to breath normally.  
 _Not dead._ He had said that to Uncle Morris, but it had not been true, not really. Of course he wasn’t dead but _legally_ … Well, that had been a totally different matter. Totally, abso-fucking-lutely a different matter and he spent way too much time around Tony. He had never cursed that much in his life before and Tony just put that in his head. 

“Shall I take that for you?” Pepper. She stood there, at the end of the hallway, smiling. Fury had said to talk with her about this and Bruce didn’t really know what this meant. He didn’t know quite much at the moment. His head was a little bit overfilled and that didn’t happen that often. Pepper came closer, all business-woman in high heels, took the paper from him (NO! My paper! Puny paper, but MY paper!) and put it in a leather-bound folder that looked more expensive than Bruce’s old suits. Well...most of his suits he had stolen from charity but that wasn’t the point.  
Bruce cocked his head, wrang his hands. Nervous gestures. He didn’t feel nervous, not really. Edgy, yes, but not nervous. It was hard to remain nervous when you knew quite exactly that nothing would ever be able to hurt you. But he liked nervous, he liked fidgeting. It reminded him of how it had been to be human.  
“Fury said...I should talk with you? About how this is possible?”  
Pepper beamed at him and then took his arm, to lead him away. She probably needed to go somewhere. She was always busy and earnest and Bruce thought that she and Tony were a little bit like he and Betty had been - just the other way round. Which meant, that he was Pepper. Which meant, he would never, EVER talk with Tony about this. He would never live it down. 

“Oh, it was nothing. Just the usual; legal mailing between me, the government and in the end the president.”  
“... you are mailing the president. About me.”  
“Normally about Tony. The government needs him for a lot of stuff and I am kinda the go-to-girl for getting him to get stuff done.” Pepper smiled. It was a small smile but warm and full of mischief and righteous pride. She was the one who danced with the billionaire, who tamed Ironman. She would probably get a nobel for that. And a certificate that she and Coulson were the masters of paperwork. Well… Coulson wasn't that much of a threat any longer. Being dead and all. Bruce made a face. He shouldn't think like that, like it just happened, that people died all the time, that they were murdered all the time, especially when they were just people. Tiny, small, weak. _Puny._  
“I just don't understand.” Bruce looked at the folder and let himself be dragged behind. He didn't have a place he needed to be right now and he liked that Pepper had become comfortable around him. It had taken some time. In the beginning, she had been like a leaf in the wind. She had tried to look brave and unscattered by him being there, but Bruce knew how to look. He had seen the little tremor in her hands whenever he was near her. He knew that she had never sat down when he was in the same room, that she always made sure to know where to run to. He had been sad and happy at the same time, when it had started to get better. He hadn't known before how that would work, but it was only logical in hindsight. Terribly, terribly logical. Bruce had always been there. Sometimes he had been in his lab for weeks on end. Sometimes he had forgotten to shower and when Tony and Pepper had come in he must have reeked. He sometimes forgot about hygiene. It was luxury and it wasn't really like he needed people to be close. Whenever he combed himself, put on a new shirt and pants and behaved in his own, mild mannered way, he felt like he was deceiving everyone. He would have preferred to be... well. Scary. Intimidating. He would have preferred to scream at everyone and make them rumble and run away. But that just wasn't him. He didn't have the strenght for that, he couldn't be bothered, really. He just wanted everyone to forget he was there. And after a time, they did. But Tony remembered. Tony got him out of his lab and under a shower and he put him in green pyjamas and forced him to do a super secret science club party. They had had s'mores and cocoa and they had talked about theoretical physics theories the whole night. Pepper had found them like that and smiled. And when she had seen him the next time, shuffling into the kitchen, getting some tea, she had sat down. She had seen him do Yoga and argue with his tablet when something didn't work out like it should. She had shaved his hair, after he had gotten that slimey-whimey stuff in it.  
Bruce deceived her. He had made her think that he was harmless and he was so, so sorry for that. But he didn't know how to… how to remind her of what he was, without actually doing some damage.

And… well. It was nice. It was oh so freaking, infuriating nice! Talking, bantering with Tony, screaming at each other sometimes, when they weren't on the same page at some science-problem. There had been that one time, when Bruce had come into his lab, because he needed his permission for an experiment (“Why do you need my permission for that?” - “… ‘cause it is your tower and your lab. Your responsibility.” - “Is something gonna blow up?” - “Don't be absurd.” - “Then I don't know why you're here! I would have liked to watch you blowing stuff up.”) and he had taken a look at the new Mark-why-does-he-keep-numbering-them-1001-schematics and said offhanded that there was a fault. Tony had huffed. “There is nothing wrong with my schematics. I am a genius, duh! One of the smartest men alive!“ - “I am Nr. 3 on that list and you made it wrong, Tony. This shouldn't be a plus, it should be an i which makes this whole thing complex and diverging and I dare to say the real end of this equation could be described by: Boom!”  
Tony had looked at his plan. “Huh…” Then he had looked at Bruce. “Nr. 3, heh? That's kinda sexy.”  
“Yeah, I have to keep reminding Hugh Heffner that I don't do photoshootings out of principle. They want me, glasses and a lot of chalk.”  
And then Tony had hugged him and ruffled his hair and when Pepper had come to get them to eat something, they had been blowing up stuff. ‘Cause... well... ‘cause they could. It was kinda peaceful to blow stuff up with Tony Stark.  
It was freaking _domestic_. Bruce really didn't know why he wasn't on the run already. He liked it here. He liked it way, way too much.  
But well. That was his life. Liking things to freaking much. He still wondered, if he could just… well _get away_ from it. SHIELD could find him anywhere. He could be back when and if he was needed. And till then it would be… well. Normal. Running from Ross or someone else. Bruce was used to running. He wasn't used to have a place where he could stay, a place he could call home.

“Fury says he isn't my mailbox.”  
“Well, he's right. Your mailbox is in the front of the tower.”  
Bruces steps stopped dead. He stared at Pepper who just looked back, seemingly mildly annoyed by him being _difficult._ After two minutes of staring, Pepper huffed and then poked his ribs with her pen.  
“Hey!” Bruce looked down and then back at her. “What... why did you do that?”  
“It seems to do the trick for Tony. Bruce, are you concerned that we have a mailbox for you?”  
“Not concerned, no, not really…”  
“But you don't like it? Are you no great fan of all the advertisement you might get?”  
“No, I'm cool with all the steak-sale-outs. But… Pepper...that means I _live_ here.”  
“ _Ahm… duh… that's… unexpected,_ ” said a little, tony-esk voice in his mind. It really wasn't a good sign that he had voices in his head and that one of them sounded like Anthony Stark. I probably wasn't even the most crazy one.  
They left the headquarter and got into a car. Bruce nodded when he noticed Happy Hogan and then tried to remind himself that confined spaces didn’t necessarily mean that he was a captive.  
“Bruce, you have a bedroom here, all your stuff is here… where else would you be living?”

 _Nowhere,_ he wanted to say. _I live nowhere and I would build a freaking condo in Neverland if at least there weren't any kids or pirates that I could endanger._  
It was _wrong_ that this place felt like home. It was wrong that he had a bed and a book beside it. It was wrong that he was optimistic enough to have chosen Proust, but it was on his bucket-list and damn him, if he wasn't going to check a lot of stuff on that, before Tony got a hold on it. Again. The last time he had written 'Threesome' on it and Bruce had laughed it off. “Not gonna happen, Tony.”  
“Dude....I am flattered, but I didn't mean with me. Not necessarily. On the other hand… I am sure you are a tiger in the bedroom.” - “You have no idea.”  
The thing was: Bruce knew he couldn't keep it. Something would happen, something bad and it would destroy everything and then he would be running again and it would be worse than before.  
Pepper put a hand on his arm and when he forced himself to look at her, she smiled up at him and said, very sincerely: “Bruce. We are lucky to have you here. Really. You help to stabilize Tony. You tidy up behind yourself and it is good that he… that he has someone to look out for. You make him more responsible.”  
“You mean, I am useful, because I forget to eat, drink and shower?”  
“And sleep. Yes. Because it reminds him that he has to do these things too. Makes my job much easier.”  
“I am glad to be able to provide a negative example of loony scientific behaviour.”  
“You are being well paid for it.”  
“I get paid?”

Pepper stared at him and Bruce stared back. She put her fingers to her face, pinching her nose, closing her eyes. She inhaled, then exhaled. It was a resigned sound. “Did Tony give you your contract?”  
“I don't think so. It wouldn't have been legal anyway, I wasn't… well. I wasn't officially able to work, was I?”  
“Bruce… what do you think you're doing here?”  
“Helping out? A little bit?” He shuffled his feet and decided that he had never talked this much with Pepper and that he didn't like it. He felt like he sat in the principals office, waiting for someone to get him, not knowing what exactly he had done wrong. “I mean...Tony gave me a lab and he lets me sleep and eat here and there are new clothes appearing in my cupboard, it's like he thinks I'm his personal Ken-doll and...well...I hope I'm making up for all of that, so....”  
“Bruce, sweetheart, let me stop you right there.” Pepper checked something on her phone again. There was probably some meeting she had to attend and Bruce was hording her time, something he really, really didn't want. Oh well. He should probably just - “Bruce, do you have any idea how many patents you're holding?”  
“None.” Bruce cocked his head, frowning. “Again: I wasn't a person, legally speaking.”  
“Which is why a Mr. Green is holding your patents. 5, by the way. 5 patents and you've not been her for such a long time. You are earning Stark Industries a lot. Of COURSE you are being paid. You have a bank account. Well, Mr Green has.”  
“You pay me…”  
“Obscenley much.”  
“... what is my job description?”  
“Special consultant.”  
 _Special indeed, Brucey-Kins._

Bruce decided, that he didn't want to know more. He didn't want to know how Pepper had made it happen, that he was a person once more, that he was legally being able to sign a contract. _I am a person. I have a bank account and an address. A mailbox. I can have a netflix account. I can order stuff from amazon._  
He thought of the Gilmore-Girls-Box he had wanted for ever. He thought about yoga-mats. Purple yoga-mats and that teapot he had seen in this one catalogue and he thought about cooking books and Friends and a Steam-account. He bet Tony had a Steam-account. They could build test-chambers in Portal and challenge each other with that.  
 _Minecraft._ , thought Bruce and smiled. He bet, Tony Stark was awesome to play Minecraft with. They would build a big science lair, he could see it. Tony would steal the plans to SHIELD’s secret hide-outs and they would build THAT in Minecraft and Tony would send Fury screenshots, just to annoy him.  
Damn. How had he ended up with the god-damned playboy of the science-world? Bruce was the Nerd (capital) in the world of nerds. He wasn't bitter about it. He wasn't bitter about Tony being Tony and thinking that the arc-reactor was somehow similar to the Hulk. It wasn't. Bruce wasn't stupid, he knew that that thing had nearly killed Tony, that it was as wrong and poisonous as it was saving his life, but it was no Hulk. It endangered him and him alone. That was probably worse for Tony than it would have been for Bruce but it couldn't compare to not knowing if he wouldn't destroy a few more lives today.  
Him living… that was a crime in and on itself, but Bruce couldn't end his life. He had tried. He had failed. Now he had to go on.

 

The car stopped in front of the Tower and Bruce accompanied Pepper inside, not really thinking anything by it. Their conversation wasn’t over, not really, but there were other things in his mind right now. 

The main problem here was: He would have to go on. He would have to give this money back somehow…. no, no that wouldn't do. Tony wouldn't have it and he was so stubborn over these things. So… .well. He would just give it away, when there was a time to run. Give it to charity, doctors around the world… _Obscenely much_ , Pepper had said. Well. Worst case scenario: He would build a Tony-Stark-Hospital in Africa or India or somewhere else. Africa… he hadn't been in Africa for quite some time. He should keep that in mind. Lots of free space in Africa.

He let himself be dragged further and further and then he remembered that he had no reason to go with Pepper any more. He stopped. “Oh. Sorry. I – I should get going. On my way. I don't know what I have to do now… being legal again. Huh. I should probably contact someone about paying taxes if you're really paying me. Wouldn't do if they had to trial me for not paying taxes. The other guy wouldn't like it.” His uncle wouldn't like it. Oh no, uncle Morris would come to trial and look at him and say ‘I taught you better, son.' and he would be right. You paid taxes when you were a person.  
“Quite right. But you're forgetting something, Bruce.”  
“Hm?” He scrunched his face. Well. It wouldn't be first time. As she had reminded him: He forgot a lot of the bare necessities of life when he was deep down in thinking.  
She smiled and took his arm again, dragging him firmly down the hallway.  
“What? Pepper? What did I forget? Do I have to do some kind of test? Do I have to sign that I am not a terrorist like when you fly?”  
“No, Bruce, no. You forgot the most important thing you get in these kinds of situations.”  
“These kinds of situations? There is a protocol for this stuff? Oh, scratch that. SHIELD. SHIELD has paperwork for everything.”  
“Not everything, no.” Pepper sounded like she had found that out herself. There probably hadn't been protocols for containing green rage monsters oder handling someone who had been hypnotised to be a double agent. “But that isn't it. Bruce. What you do in these kind of situation is this:”

 

She opened a door and pushed him through it.  
First there was darkness and his heart rate started to speed up and then the light went on and Tony tackled him out of nowhere and put a party-hat on his head. “SURPRIIIIIISE Brucey-Kins!” He gave him a loud kiss on each cheek and then pressed him into a bone-crushing hug. “WELCOME TO THE REALM OF PEEEEEEEOPLE! Buy a yankee-cap, get a bus ticket and tell everyone you're a New-Yorker now! Be _rude_! You earned it!”  
There were… balloons. Balloons and a transparent with the words “YOU'RE NOT NORMAL BUT AT LEAST YOU HAVE TO DO PAPERWORK NOW LIKE US OTHER GUYS TOO! WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF US! COME FOR THE APPRECIATION, STAY FOR THE CAKE!”  
There really was cake. There was a giant, GIANT cake-thing with green icing on it. Bruce could smell peppermint. And there were little tarts with strawberries and cranberries and blueberries and some fruit that he had eaten once when he had been at the Amazonas. It had been a filling for grilled monkey and it made him a little nauseated to see it on a tart.  
“In these kind of situations, Bruce, you have a party,” Pepper whispered in his ear and put a kiss on his cheek. Tony wolf whistled at that. “Enjoy.”  
“Hey, I want a kiss too! I am the kissable one!” Tony pouted and Pepper laughed and then there were other people, taking his hand, saying things... It was the team and they were all a little bit weary.  
Natasha kept her distance, nodded at him, but she smiled and when she said: “I am glad for you,” it sounded like she meant it. Bruce forced his lips to part. “Thank you.”

Steve saluted and then hugged him, which was awkward. It was so obvious that he forced himself and Bruce forced himself to stand still, and not to squeal and run away, cause, really, _hugs_. He had gotten used to them with Tony but that was mostly because Tony was just a big kid and he clinged to anyone and wanted to be carried everywhere. Bruce never initiated a hug. It made him highly uncomfortable to touch people. It always felt like they wanted to beat him the next second, like they wanted to put him down, into custody or just straight out strangle him. He waited for hands closing around his throat, he waited for kicks to his ribs. He waited and stayed still and he tried to smile through it all. It was like being a kid again, acting like being touched was normal, was okay. He just had to keep on smiling when someone touched his hair or his arm, he just had to smile when mummy patted his arm, 'cause there was no pain, no, where should the pain be coming from?  
But people worried, people weren’t supposed to worry, not about him. _Just keep on smiling. Try to look them in the eye for a moment. Try to act normal for once, Banner! No one’s gonna bite you. It's just… it's just touches. Hugs. Hugs are nice._  
Hugs were awful, especially Captain-America-Hugs, ‘cause these were a goddamn duty of his and he didn't enjoy them any more than Bruce and Bruce started to feel bad that the guy had to touch him.  
Oh boy.  
He wanted to put the stupid hat down from his head and stopped the motion when he heard Tony cry. “NO! Don't do it! NOT THE HAAAAT! BRUCEY-KINS, you're HURTING ME!”  
Bruce left the hat where it was.  
“Well…” Bruce sat down on a chair. He just didn't want to stand any longer. Everyone looked at him, expected him to say something. He pulled his hair, looked around and tried to find something to say.  
“Guys, this is....” He didn't know what it was. It was a party to celebrate that he was acknowledged as a person. A human being in the widest possible meaning of the word. And these were a bunch of people who wanted to celebrate that with him. They were his team. They were… they were good people and crazy. They were all so crazy in their own wonderful way. “... this is…”  
“The nicest and best thing anyone has ever done for you! And we are wonderful, awesome and you ADORE THE GROUND WE WALK ON! The ground _I_ walk on especially!”  
The other Avengers groaned, but there was a secret, small smile around Bruce’s lips and he looked to Tony who stood there and to Pepper, who slapped his arm. He was so… it was so normal for him to be liked, to be around people who liked him. Bruce felt a longing in him that nearly became a growl, animalistic and low. He hoped it didn't show in his eyes.  
Bruce looked down, snickered and when he looked up, he had cleaned his face from every expression that might have been suspicious. “Yes, Tony. All hail to the ground your feet have touched, oh mighty scientist, emperor of parties and god of celebrations!“ He took a plate and put on his best puppy eyes. (Which were damn good puppy eyes.) “Cake?”

 

It got better than Bruce had anticipated. At first it had been a little bit awkward but after a while (and a couple of drinks) everyone had started to relax. Tony kept putting drinks in Bruce's hand and Bruce smiled thankfully and somehow managed to get them to Thor or Steve.  
They chatted, ate cake, drank very old whiskey. Bruce didn't drink. He got his drinks, he gave them away. It just happened.  
There was music. Tony said it was horrible, HORRIBLE. Pepper had chosen the music. It was music from around the world. Traditional. Indian, African… when there was a tango, he saw Widow’s toe tapping. Bruce got up, went to her, shuffled his feet and offered his hand up to her. It was a stupid idea and he knew it. He would have blamed the alcohol, but he hadn’t drunk any, so this was just him being an idiot and too full of himself.  
Natasha’s eyebrow went up.  
“It's my party. One dance, Agent Romanov?”  
There was a secret smile around her lips when she stood up. “Tango, Doctor Banner? I took you for the waltzing-type.”  
“You are way too young to see me waltz, Agent Romanov.”  
There were wolf whistles again and Bruce knew that they all looked and thought he would stumble and fall and be totally awkward about it. He straightened his back and he let it happen, that Natasha took his glasses and put them in his pocket. She took his hand and then he moved one foot and she followed. His lips curved.  
They went around the room and it was how dancing should be: It was like meditating and like fighting. And Bruce remembered those months in Spain, ending in a short, stupid trip to Barcelona. Bulls. Too many freaking bulls to remain calm.  
They looked at each other, when they were finished. Natasha’s hair was shining like the sun above Spain, like the dust in the desert in New Mexico, like blood and poppies. There was an amused glint in her eyes and a secret all over her face and Bruce asked himself why he wasn't in love with her. It seemed stupid to _not_ fall for this woman.

Tony clapped his back. “Bruce....”, he said, “Brucie-kins, THAT was You-Tube-Material. That mixed with the Hulk smashing that Leviathan and you will be the video-feed to Linkin Park’s next song. We should send you to _Dancing with the Stars_!”  
“I didn't know the fair Doctor could move that way! He might be a decent Warrior if he put his mind to it!”

 _Thank you, Thor._ Bruce rolled his eyes. _What a nice way to be called a weakling._  
Really. He was the only non-fighter in this group and he knew it but it sometimes seemed that they all thought that he could do NOTHING with his body. He would dare them all to do Pilates. He would kick asses at Pilates. He would make Tony _scream._ Like. A. Little. Girl.  
“Can you dance other stuff too?” Tony was at his neck, his arm around his shoulders and he was a little bit tipsy on his feet. “Waltz. You said you could waltz. Can you dance flamenco? Or hopping with the Indian chicks, Bollywood-style? Oh, I know: Ever danced naked around a fire?”  
Bruce felt the red creeping up his spine, settling as a faint blush on his cheeks and he took his glasses from Natasha and said “Idiot” to Tony, who was laughing – roaring actually – on the floor. He said it again, but he did it quite affectionately. He excelled at dances that were about meditating or about control and he had used them for that. He still stumbled and fell and was totally awkward when he was doing it with someone he found attractive. Well… no, that was the wrong way to say it. Natasha was one of the most beautiful women he had ever met. But he felt like he understood her, like he could get a grip on all that coldness inside of her, tinged with a little bit of warmth. He felt affectionate looking at her, but it was more like an uncle would feel. Damn, he had become old without looking the part.  
With that thought in mind, he put himself firmly on a chair, took another slice of cake (Nr 12, but who was counting?) and decided that he would just stay there.  
It was really, really nice for a time. He watched Hawkeye watching everything for a moment and he watched Natasha talking with him.  
They were both so breakable and young and… well. Bruce tilted his head to the side and smiled, because around each other they seemed to be comfortable. He wanted them to be comfortable and these two would at least always have each other. It was nice.

Later he was talking with Natasha about the local customs in different countries. They found out that they both had been in Tibet at roughly the same time and changed the topic to that small place at one corner where one could get the best grilled mice ever made.  
“You know…”, Natasha said, “the owner told me about a guy who always came there and said that the pavement was very cliché.”  
Bruce let his head hang. “Languages”, he groaned. “I'll never get it right with _languages_. And they didn't have _Sesame Street_ in Tibet.”  
“You taught yourself with Ernie and Bert?” - “I taught myself how to count in forty-six different languages. Counting is easy. It's grammar and different vocabulary that sounds like the same words in another language that makes it all gibberish.”  
“I am glad we found something you suck at.” Tony downed his drink and ruffled his hair. “You became waaaaaaay to perfect with the dancing and all that jazz. Can't have no competition around here.”  
“You are no competition, Tony.” Bruce smiled sweetly and took the glass the engineer gave him. “Nr 3, remember? _You_ just _assume_ that you should be on that list.”  
“Peachy.” - “I'm the whole damn fruit basket since I am here.”  
He later talked with Thor about Norse myths. Bruce had read the Edda since they’d first met and he walked Thor through it, wanting to know which parts were telling the truth. He was surprised to find that Loki really was married and that the bride seemed to be a sweet girl, according to Thor, who started to look like a kicked puppy again, so Bruce changed the subject and let Thor talk about his team of fierce warriors and how he BET that Bruce’s 'Warrior-Side' would be a most honourable extension.

Tony drank another bottle of… something. He started singing _Maria_ from West-Side Story.  
Bruce declined to let the other guy have some kind of Asgardian beach party.  
Bruce even had a decent chat with Steve. The captain forced himself to talk with him, it was obvious, but he seemed so determined to find _something_ they could connect over. Bruce didn't envy him, not one bit. He was in the completely wrong time, he was a living action figure, a role model for a whole generation, everyone he had ever loved was dead or very, very old and he had the command over a team that included an Asgardian prince (who pretty much wasn't used to taking orders from a boy 1000 years younger than himself), two trained assassins (one of them an ex-russian-spy), an eccentric billionaire (and son of one of Steve’s lost friends) and a monster in the skin of a man. Bruce didn't like the idea that there would be a time when Steve would have to stand between him and Ross. It wouldn't be nice for the poor boy and Bruce hoped that he would be able to prevent that, that he would have the strenght to go before it came to that. He had started to doubt that. He had started to become content. He was _nesting_. He was reading Proust and singing under the shower and he had a favorite robot.  
 _I have a mailbox._ , he reminded himself.  
Tony downed another drink.  
Bruce shouldn't care. Tony drank a lot, it was universally known. He always tried to make Bruce drink with him, but it somehow never came to that. He looked at Tony, who sang something, a tie around his head – which was peculiar, because he hadn't had a tie before.  
Bruce became very quiet over time. He stopped talking, he just became the observer like he did so often, sitting at the table, the wall at his back and a tea in front of him. The tea had long gone cold. His hands were fists on his knees.  
Tony was singing something and then he dragged Pepper with him and she looked… exhausted. “Tony… really, I just want to sit…”  
He was having none of it, just dragged her along and pushed her around like a ragdoll. He smiled in his lunatic way and sang to her and danced, as much as he could dance, drunk like he was.

Thor laughed about it. Steve smiled fondly. Natasha was blank like always and Hawkeye observed, his mimic the same untelling mask it had been all evening, this mix of _can’t-be-bothered_ and outright boredom and something else, something dark, Bruce just couldn’t put his finger on what that was. But there was something behind those icy blue eyes that were locked on the dancing couples. It was...well. It reminded Bruce a bit of a hawk, as stupid as that sounded. Always watching, showing no emotions whatsoever and hiding his thoughts from everyone else.  
“BRUCEY-KINS! We shouschd blowwwwww schomeschin' up. UP I schay!”  
“Tony… Tony I don't think you should handle explosives right now....”  
“Hush, woman! SCIENCE! BOOM-SCIENCE!”

Bruces knuckles turned grey. Not white, but grey. He could see it, little flickers of grey going all the way up his arm. Something cold-hot settled in his stomach. He didn't want to think. He could smell molten ice-cream. Vanilla and banana. He could smell the booze-stink coming from Stark, could smell it all the way through the room. It lingered on his tongue, stale like ash and blood and wet dirt in the backyard.  
“Green fellow and I are going to do scheeeeeeriousch sciency-stuff. Boom! We could blow up the Mark VII 1.0. Hasch been a dischaschter all over…”  
Bruce stood up. He felt calm and he felt hot. There was a slight tremor in his fingertips and a growl deep inside his belly.  
“Right, big fellow?” Tony beamed at him and took another bottle of 1000-$-a-sip-whiskey. He opened it with practised ease.  
Pepper looked at him with a stern expression. “Tony, you have had enough, you -”  
“NAH! Have to show Thor th....tffffat he ain't god of drinking, nah. Tfatt am I!”  
“I said you are the god of celebration. And you HAVE had quite enough, Tony.” Bruce sounded stern and calm when he stepped closer. He put himself between Pepper and Tony without noticing it. “Put that bottle down and go to bed.”  
“NAAAAH! Have to blow stuff up, Brucey-kins! Booom! Could let the big guy out, have a drinking party in tsche Schreeeeeet!” He took a big swig and started singing again, dancing around and it was pathetic and it was… it made Bruce _angry_. Not angry in the familiar way, in the hot, burning, green sort of way, but… the anger was cold and sharp and it froze him up from the inside out and as he spoke, it wasn't him, not really. He watched it happening, he wanted it to happen, but he wasn't quite there, not really driving.  
Bruce grabbed Tony by the collar and slammed him against the wall. It was _easy_ to hold him up and it had to nearly strangle him but he didn't care. He leaned in, snarling. “Now listen to me, you stupid DRUNKARD – You. Have. Had. ENOUGH. Drop that bottle, Stark.”  
He did. The glass shattered and the _stink_ was there and Bruces face contorted, transformed into something that must have been pure, cold fury. His eyes flashed green, he could feel it.  
“... easy tsch… there big fellow…” Tony put his hands on Bruce’s chest.  
“Don't touch me.”  
“Yeah, yeah, schorry…”

The hands were gone and Bruce snarled. The fury was still there but it died easily and it left him feeling burning and cold and lost. His arm was slammed against Tony’s throat and he realised how easy it would be to just break it. One push. One push and it would be over. _Never again. PUNY man. I am strong. Stronger than puny man. Than puny neck. Strongest there is._  
He put Tony down. There was a bruise starting to bloom on his throat. Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, pinched his nose and then turned around. Everyone was staring at him, Thors fist cramped around Mjölnir and Widow and the Hawk with their guns out, pointing them right at him (so stupid, as if that would keep them any safer).... Normally he would have fidgeted but now he was just feeling mildly annoyed. _Come on. Someone had to put an end to it, before... before…_  
Tony groaned and moved and Bruce flinched, just a little bit and ducked his head. But no blow came, no scream, no nothing. He had to get away. There was fear in his stomach. Fear and fury and a numbness he didn't want to feel.  
They all looked at him like something was wrong. He smiled. He put on a smile, ruffled his hair, shuffled his feet. “I am sorry”, he said and it sounded too sincere in his own ears. “I think I am just a bit tired. It was quite something today. Excuse me.” He looked around once more, looked at Pepper, who tried to compose herself, but she looked shaken to the core.  
 _Afraid of me. Of the monster. Good. Look at me, Pepper. See me. Be afraid, be scared, it is better for everyone._  
He smiled again, put his glasses in place and strolled out of the room, stopped just before he left. Right. Still not perfectly right, not like it should be. “Thank you all.” He looked back at them and he forced himself to not see the way Tony was drunk and… something else. Bruce smiled sincerely and he forced something like joy in his voice. “That was really nice. Very nice. See you tomorrow.“  
And then he turned and fled and he didn't know where he wanted to go, until he was in his lab and started working. It didn't matter what he did. As long as he forgot to feel sad and alone it was good.

 _I will go._ , he decided. _I will leave tomorrow._  
It hit him then. Tony’s look, Pepper’s gasp, the way the other Avengers had stood there, ready to attack.  
He had hurt Tony. He had… he had _attacked_ him!  
Bruce started shaking. Glass shattered and he forced the thought back. _Monster._ , it sang in him. _I’ve always known what you were._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a happy ending.


	6. 5. Making Circles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Working for SHIELD basically means your bosses can screw you over at any time. Most of the time, they'll try to make you believe you can trust them or pretend it's for the right reasons. Sometimes they'll be just too lazy to do you even that little courtesy. So why would anyone work for them? Yeah, we don't get it either. Maybe there's free dental care.
> 
> On another note, there's still a party going on and there's a lot of hatred concerning those hats...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We would like to dedicate this specific chapter to Rica, a friend of ours who plays a phenomenal Black Widow at the Marvel-RP-Board where the two of us met and got crazy about Brucey and Clint.  
> She has given us quite the inspiration for this character and several of the ideas concerning Black Widow's background and her motives are based on what she did with Natasha, although there's also some stuff she probably would have handled differently which we took in for storyline-reasons. We hope to do the Widow justice in this story.
> 
>  **Warnings:**  
>  Some people in this chapter have a not so well functioning, but pretty active love life. Meaning there's mentioning of sex having taken place. Also we have some minor mentions of physical child abuse, nothing graphic - but it's there. Mostly, though, there will be some torture on a botanical level that may or may not end in plantal death. You have been warned.

  
**5\. Making Circles**

_Well our love story reads like a book of lies_  
 _Good intentions, better alibis_  
 _No happy endings, no straight lines, no movin' on,_  
 _But no goodbyes._  
 _This bittersweet revelry will be the death of me._

_We both need to lead while we dance along_  
 _One more graceful spin on who's right or wrong_  
 _The same old words, the same old song_  
 _Baby, we're right where we belong._  
 _And it can't get much better and it sure can't get worse_  
 _Well either way you turn, it's gonna hurt._

 

**I**

SHIELD HQ, NYC | August 22, 2013

Something had changed. Black Widow couldn’t exactly say how it had happened, or when, or even why – but at some point during the last four years she’d started to feel personally responsible for her partner. The first time she realized the burden, the weight of obligation on her shoulders, she had decided to run away and never look back. She had lost far too much in her early years (but then again, taking a look around SHIELD, who hadn’t?) and her entire life since then, Natasha had been careful not to get too close to anyone ever again. Feelings were a weakness she couldn’t permit herself to have. Emotions were the sort of risk that got you killed. Not right away, maybe not even literally, but they usually did. _Start to care and you make yourself vulnerable._ She knew that it was the truth. She had felt it up close back then, rushing into a dangerous situation without a second look like some rookie, just to safe Hawkeye from an enemy sneaking up behind the sniper, even though her actions left her completely exposed to an attack that might just as well have been her last mistake. Afterwards, Clint had thanked her, for the first time since she’d met him. He’d also called her ‘partner’ and for the first time since they’d started working together, there had been no resentment, no sarcasm in the way he pronounced that word. Just… respect and warmth and so many cuddly feelings that Natasha suddenly longed for a shower. They weren’t _friends_ , she told herself. They couldn’t be friends because she was careful to not make friends. Friends might come in handy sometimes, but most of the time, they were a nuisance, a distraction, and if you got really unlucky, they’d even need favours from you and you’d have to grant those because they were your friends, your obligation, your vulnerability. No, she was above all that. She had been sure she was.  
She had saved Clint’s life, so what. But he saw it differently, it seemed. There wasn’t just gratitude in the way he looked at her, he accepted her for who she was. There was _trust_ , just like that. He _trusted_ her to have his back and with that, suddenly, it became impossible to breathe. Tasha couldn’t have that. So she ran. Started going back to her old ways, at least she tried to. But when she heard rumours about the Russian mob cornering an American spy trying to infiltrate their ranks, she had been too anxious to just stay away. And she had been just in time to safe Hawkeye, yet again. He sucked at accents, not quite as much as most Americans - for an American, he actually did a nice enough job - but she’d never believed him to be Russian for a second. Well, maybe that was because she knew him. He had improved since their first meeting, but there were still some small mistakes, some vowels that gave away his non-European origin. Still, he’d made it two weeks in certain circles, that was quite impressive. Russian mobsters were relatively smart, smarter than most agencies gave them credit for. She had rushed in, gotten him free in an attempt to get him home safely. But this time, she’d almost died for it because the whole setup was a trap, a trap for her. The mob remembered Budapest, they remembered that for a short time back then, she’d fought side by side with an American archer, and surprise, there weren’t that many of those east of Germany. Also, some rumours were actually breadcrumbs, spread specifically for her to hear. This time, Clint had gotten the chance to return the favour and she owed him her life. Yet again. At some point, they’d stopped counting who had saved whom more often because frankly, it didn’t matter anymore. She knew then that it was too late. She was hooked, emotionally compromised, too much to be ever safe as long as Hawkeye was out there, getting in dangerous situations and becoming leverage against her. And so she stayed, tried to be professional about it, to keep her distance while still watching Clint’s back and she realized that yes, she had become more vulnerable… but there also was someone looking out for her now, trying to keep her safe just as much as she tried to keep him safe. Maybe because he thought them friends. She was never sure what Clint was thinking, what was going on in that thick blond head of his.

Then she saw him with another woman and felt a sudden sting of jealousy. Again, she ran away, left SHIELD behind without a word. And Clint came after her, not realising why she was upset and she didn’t tell him out of pride. He never _got it_ and he didn’t seem to mind. It was as if he was her safety net, whenever she fell, he was there to catch her, even if he had been the one to drive her over the emotional edge in the first place. She resented that and she loved that. And she hated seeing him with other women, SHIELD-agents mostly, women for just one night who usually stayed for a lot more than that because Clint was great and uncomplicated and didn’t mind having eight one-night-stands in a row. She hated it because he always got that look afterwards, trying to pretend he was mature enough to not care, that it was just sex when really he sucked at keeping things casually, at staying unattached. He always managed to fool the other women, however. He fooled them and fucked around with them and everyone enjoyed themselves, and when they were finally gone he’d mope around for a few days in secret, thinking that no one would see it if he just kept his mask on, and then he’d move on to the next target and pretend he didn’t have emotional scar tissue, pretend he hadn’t been compromised, that it hadn’t been far too personal to be comfortable. And Tasha would see it all, watch him break and heal once more, wonder why the hell he was doing that to himself. And she’d visit him in the evening and watch one of his silly movies with him that she cared nothing for, or make him go to the ballet or the opera with her although he dozed off halfway in the show. She’d always admired how Clint could sleep in anywhere, even standing up if he had to, no matter how much pain or stress or fear. He just closed his eyes and escaped, and if you woke him up because the mission was starting, he jerked up, fully operational, ready to attack. She’d even seen him in boring debriefs, sitting there with his eyes open, but empty, and suspected he was taking a nap.

It wasn’t as if she wanted a dedicated relationship. Exclusiveness, God, no. She was free and she liked it that way. Clint was a grown man and it wasn’t like they hadn’t already slept together. First mission. Miami. After a long day of distrust and frustration and the growing realisation that the partner she’d requested from Fury when she switched sides oddly enough wasn’t okay with working alongside his past enemy, she’d seduced him. He was still so _young_. But then again, most guys worth seducing were these days, for her that was. Clint, however, was twenty-three years old; he was wide-eyed, naïve in a way that scratched on the vulnerable and sort of prudish, she thought back then because he’d been pulling away all day whenever she’d tried to flirt with him or touch him. So cute. As if she couldn’t see his thoughts, whenever he looked at her, written so clearly all over his face that he almost blushed when their eyes met. He had insisted she let the TV-set on before their mission, as if to discourage any talks between them. _Titanic._ Of all the movies… a romantic tragedy. She’d figured out he already knew it right away by the way his lips moved at his favourite bits. And he seemed to _like_ it. Clint Barton, marksman, agent of SHIELD (and a damn good one, after all he’d gotten the better of her in Budapest and she was still sort of pissed off about that at the time and longed for a rematch - and no, the fact that she’d eventually been able to screw him over didn’t count, that wasn’t enough, not by a long shot), loved romance. He hadn’t killed her back in Budapest and he’d even gotten her to rethink her entire life, but she’d still been surprised. He was intriguing because every time she realized something about him, there was another discrepancy in his behaviour, she just couldn’t figure him out like everyone else. Clearly, he was interested in her. He wasn’t gay, as she’d suspected at first when he flinched away from her touch. She could see the dirty thoughts in his eyes. And still he was pulling away like a scared little virgin although he’d proven in Budapest that he was kind of _hot_ and almost too skilled at flirting for a kid that could easily be her son, shit, her grandson if she’d hurried up with the whole family experience. In the end, it didn’t need that much seduction after all. One touch, one look and he basically fell in her lap, all resistance broken down, but from there, he’d taken the initiative, almost violently passionate. God, she loved when he did that even though she usually hated men who pushed her around. He had a way about him that made her feel at ease and completely on edge at the same time. Contradictions. There were always contradictions with Barton. It was hard and it was so damn easy.

Tasha didn’t keep score or something, but damn, that one night in Miami was some great sex. He was strong, especially his arms, and she’d never forget how he’d hold her, restrict her and protect her at the same time and the way he’d kissed her all over her body until she lost control and screamed out in frustration and longing. He had just laughed about that, not the least scared to be in bed with a cold-blooded killer who could fuck him senseless or just kill him right there. Even in bed he was this illogical mix of pure force, emotions (rage even) and enough kindness to make sure she got her money’s worth.

The next mission, two weeks later, Tasha tried to get a repetition. And he’d pushed her away, almost coldly, but so definitely that she actually gave up on him (and she usually never, ever, gave up). He wasn’t interested. Maybe he figured he’d already gotten everything he wanted. Or his defences were back up. Maybe he was like her, just couldn’t handle the proximity and tried to pull away. Or she was the one exception to his rule to never generally disregard SHIELD regulations that disapproved of agents working _and_ sleeping together. She didn’t care for his stupid reasons. She had her pride, too, and he had injured it just about enough to make sure that she’d never tried again since then, no matter how close they’d gotten over the years, even sharing beds and sleeping bags on several missions. There was no action, they were just partners and after a little time of frustration, she became oddly okay with that. The sex would have been a nice bonus, but frankly, the trust between them was even better.

And right now, Natasha felt like she had betrayed that trust. She hadn’t been looking out for Hawkeye like she should have. The last few months had been extremely tough on her, far worse than she cared to admit to anyone. Coulson was dead, but she still remembered what he’d figured out and it gave her the creeps. One sentence over the telephone line. “Natasha, Barton’s been compromised.” And that, right there, had been enough to change her mind and get her fully invested in this freak-project called ‘The Avengers Initiative’. She had even fought down her worst fear, she had gone to Calcutta, faced the Hulk and persuaded the one thing on the planet she seriously didn’t want to have in her proximity to accompany her. All for Barton. And Coulson knew. Which meant that Fury knew and any knowledge in the hands of Director Fury was bound to become a weapon at some point. And then there had been her interrogation of Loki. Of course, she could always claim that she’d been acting, that she had acted vulnerable to get what she intel she wanted. That was her MO, after all. But she knew there was more to it that just that. When she’d told Clint that she had been compromised, it was the truth. Loki had scared her. He had been able to _hurt_ her, inflicting pain purely by painting a picture. She couldn’t forget that picture. It kept sneaking up on her when she didn’t think about it, Clint torturing her in any way she feared, killing her the slowest and cruellest ways possible and then waking up to see what he’d done. She didn’t know what was worse, having to suffer at her partner’s hands or the agony it would inflict on him. If that had happened, it would have torn him apart, she could hear his cry in her imagination even now, as soon as she closed her eyes. That cry had haunted her just as much as her own screams had kept her up at night. 

So when she had done it, when she had gotten Clint back and they had saved the world, she’d taken some leave of absence from SHIELD. She’d needed to get her head back together, to decide whether this was still what she wanted. She wasn’t so much concerned because the director had figured out how to push her emotional buttons. She was concerned because there were buttons to be pushed and because she had underestimated how much they affected her choices.

She would never be able to forgive Loki’s threat, or to forget it. She still resented the fact that Thor’s brother had been given back to the Asgardians. He deserved to _die_. He should have died at her hands, but that wouldn’t even have been enough. She wanted to inflict the same pain on him that he had given her, cause him just as much grief. The problem was that Loki loved no one except himself. He had been far more careful than Black Widow. Loki didn’t have any vulnerable spots. He didn’t _care_ for anyone. She thought back to the days when she had been like that, and she missed them.

Just as she had missed them three days ago. Fury was manipulating her. He wasn’t just playing with Clint, he was playing her, too. Natasha had stood behind the mirror, watching how her partner was being interrogated, how they treated him harsher than need be and she felt an urge to punch someone, to kill someone. She all but did. She just stood there, frozen in anger and rage and fear and yes, guilt, when she should have been in there. Hell. She should have been at Clint’s side, not in the interrogation room but for the last few days, during the early stages of his recovery, making sure he healed like he was supposed to and providing him with an alibi now, that he needed one. She had been avoiding Clint ever since New York, not openly, but there had been space between them she’d put there on purpose. She took care of him, but she kept her distance doing so. There were already too many buttons with his name on them.

And now there were three possibilities that Fury was investigating. One: Clint was a traitor and tried to get away with it, playing the innocent victim. Two: Clint had lost his mind and killed those men without even realizing it. And three: he was innocent and someone was framing him – but who could do that? She had seen the footage, again and again and again and yes, she knew her partner in and out, she knew how he moved, she knew how he fought. And this was his style. There was one movement, one little twitch where she wasn’t so sure. She had taught him a move that might have been more effective and Hawkeye usually chose the most effective way to disarm enemies. But that could be a coincidence.

Natasha was furious at herself because if only she’d had stayed with Clint these last few days, watching him, she could have prevented the entire investigation if not even the murders. She knew that the first possibility was stupid. She knew Clint. He was a killer and a fighter, but there had always been a line he didn’t want to cross and she had always been amused by that, but also deeply impressed and a little bit envious. Barton would never be a white knight; it wasn’t as simple as that. But he was a killer who refused to murder, a sniper who refused to assassinate. He was special, dumb enough to _care_ about anything whilst fearless enough to make decisions based on his emotions; and even if she thought of it as a weakness rationally, she also envied his contradictory strength and fragility on an emotional level, wishing she had been more like him. Her ledger would still be red, but maybe she would be better at living with that… or not. Hawkeye didn’t seem to be doing that great. He was great at watching and sucked at listening. How often did she have to tell him to ignore his emotions, to stop acting on a whim?

Was it all her fault? If she had been there for Clint after Loki, watched over his mental state, made sure he actually participated in his therapy the way he was supposed to instead of playing with his shrink (yes, she had broken into his shrink’s office and stolen the files to read them after Clint had been arrested. Of course she didn’t feel bad about that. She wasn’t nosy, she needed to know this for other reasons than to satisfy her curiosity and seeing that she felt responsible, it was her duty to watch out for Clint the best she could, using all her skills)… Maybe if she’d done all that back then, when it still made a difference, he wouldn’t have pulled away from everyone without her even noticing it. His shrink knew that Clint was lying through his teeth but he let him, trying to get him to talk at all. She was impressed by this Dr Martin. He had some serious skills as an interrogation specialist, even if his style varied from hers. Most of his deductions about Clint had been right and extremely detailed (she’d left him little post-its next to those that were wrong, offering her input). His deductions, however, had also been worrying. He had written down that Clint was de-socialising. She didn’t like that and she was angry at Clint because he hadn’t come to her, he should have told her he was having trouble fitting back into the agency he had been forced to betray, facing the people whose friends and colleagues he had helped to kill.

When she hadn’t been able to take it any more, those three days ago, Natasha had stormed into the interrogation room and cut the whole interview short. She knew Fury didn’t like that. But he’d asked for it. What had he thought, that she’d stand idly by while he grilled the one person she cared about?

 

“You still don’t think he did it, do you?” Hill asked her calmly. They were standing at the mirror again, watching while Thornton was questioning Clint, showing him pictures and trying to get him to open up which obviously wasn’t working at all. “He fits the profile right down to the last detail and we don’t have any other suspects,” Hill went on almost kindly. “This may be hard to hear but think about it. We don’t know what effects that sceptre had exactly but Erik Selvig was taken to an asylum a few weeks ago and they say he’s completely lost it. Keeps on blabbering about portals and the end of all existence. Barton’s a strong guy but maybe it was only a matter of time until he’d crack, too, at some point.” Natasha felt her stomach twitch but she stayed as calm as a statue on the outside. No more pushing her buttons. She was a professional, after all. “It’s possible he did what you all say he did,” she said as placidly as if they were discussing a complete stranger or the food at the cafeteria. “He’s got no alibi for any of the murders, he had means because even if I really got every last weapon out of his apartment – and I’m sure I might have missed the one or other bow in one of his air-vents – he could still have managed to pick a bow up somewhere. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had stashes of bows and ammunition around town, just in case. And obviously, he’s not himself right now.” She shifted her stance only so slightly, crossing the arms in front of her chest. She was fully aware of her body, of the strain on her muscles, the strength she had inside her. From where she was standing, she could have incapacitated Hill in six seconds, the SHIELD-analyst behind them in two more, and be inside interrogation to fight Thornton before anyone could sound any alarm. She didn’t, but the thought had never stopped crossing her mind ever since Maria Hill had joined her in here. “But what all of you seem to have been forgetting for the last three days that you’ve constantly tried to get inside his head is that he got his shoulder dislocated. I doubt he’d be able to perform the shots you’re accusing him of with an injury like that. Even he’s got his limits.” Hill laughed. “You must really think me stupid.”

Natasha lifted her eyebrows and for a moment, there was a slight twitch at the corners of her mouth. “Actually, I don’t, but a girl can hope.” – “How many times has Barton been wounded in action and still fulfilled the mission despite his handicap? I’ve seen footage of him climbing a skyscraper with a shattered femur.” This time, Black Widow grinned. Oh, right. Hongkong. That had been a tough one. Good times. “Yeah, he’s one crazy bastard. Although to be fair, his leg wasn’t all that bad. Clean closed fracture. And all he had to do was splint it with a few arrows and get up six stories. It’s not like he scaled the entire building.” Hill lifted her eyebrows and Natasha grinned even wider, feeling a strange sense of pride even though it wasn’t her accomplishment she was discussing. She had been trapped on the top floor of that building. Undercover op gone south. Her handler hadn’t been able to get to her in time and Hawkeye had been her backup, he’d only been there to watch that one little square where they exchange would take place, but of course, she never showed because she got captured first. His direct order was to stay the hell out of there and wait till the Chinese moved her, wait for backup and take them in a team on the outside. Later he would claim that he’d heard some mobsters discussing how they would kill her, but that bit, he’d made up for the files. He didn’t speak Chinese and yes, they would probably have moved her a few hours later, providing SHIELD with a possibility for clean intersection. He had rushed in nevertheless, jumping down a four story building into a dark alley where he’d had to fight some thugs, breaking his leg when he landed on the pavement. Then he’d thrown away his comlink because Coulson was shouting into his ear and distracting him, and stormed the skyscraper owned by mobsters on his own, one guy with a broken leg and a bow against the Triads. He used the elevator to get up as high as he could, when they intercepted it, he climbed up the elevator cable to the next floor, got out and scaled the building from the outside. He’d managed to break her free and she’d repaid him by being his crutch on the way down and by giving Coulson a look so murderous it had shut him up right there before he could utter as much as an angry statement.

She would have done the exact same thing for Clint. She had, several times. When it came to watching each other’s back, they didn’t hold back or go home when they got a little scratch. Ever since back then, they were also working without an extraction plan. That was a given. But that was okay, because both of them preferred working alone to having to rely on a team of lesser skilled people. They were good at what they were doing, good enough to have each other’s backs.

“Alright, so you _did_ consider his injury,” Natasha nodded. She sighed inwardly. This was bad.  
“You know you’re looking at this all wrong, don’t you?” Hill asked suddenly. Natasha turned her head, shooting the other woman a dark glance. “How so?”

She couldn’t take much more. One more crappy statement about Clint and she’d get him out of here. She wouldn’t mind leaving SHIELD behind. She never had before. The only reason she kept coming back to this organisation was Barton. And if they tried to turn her against him, they had underestimated them both. She wouldn’t let that happen. She didn’t care if he had killed three more people or not. She cared about _him_ and from where she was standing, killing three scumbags in cold blood could hardly be counted as a crime.

“We’re not investigating him out of spite. This is not about getting back to him because of Loki or getting rid of a faulty asset or whatever you think we’re doing.” Natasha turned her gaze back to Clint. He had been sitting there, dead silent, for two hours, his eyes fixated on the table top. She hated seeing him like this. He was blaming himself. She could see it. It made her angry, so angry, but she wouldn’t say it. He did what she had specifically asked him not to do, he was blaming himself for Loki’s crimes, moron that he was. “Actually, that was about exactly what I was thinking.”  
“Well, that’s not what we’re doing. Director Fury’s protecting him as best he can, you must realize that, don’t you? We’ve been trying to keep this as contained and small as possible. This is a level eight, most people in this agency haven’t been briefed on this and they never will be if it turns out to be a witch hunt in the wrong direction.” – “Protecting him of _what_?” She couldn’t hold back her annoyance fully this time. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks more like you’re treating him like a criminal mastermind of some sort.”

“Ross.”

Natasha tightened her lips until they were just one small, white line. She remembered the guy only too well. She had been in Harlem that night, when he had unleashed the Hulk and Abomination. Thanks to his short-mindedness, cruelty and arrogance, dozens of civilians had died right before her eyes. And Abomination had dropped a building on top of her. “That sick…” – “Someone on Ross’s team hacked our systems two weeks ago. At the time, we didn’t know what they were after and even when we found out, it took us some time to figure out what they were going to do with the intel they got their hands on.” – “What was it?”  
Hill sighed. “SHIELD has been collaborating with Stark Industries. Or in other words, Director Fury and I put our signatures on a petition send to the White House, requesting Dr Banner be reinstated and declared a citizen of the U.S.”  
Natasha narrowed her eyes. “Guess Ross wasn’t too happy about that.” – “Probably not, seeing how much he despised Banner all along and how obsessed he was with catching the Hulk and turning him into his personal weapon, if he couldn’t destroy him.” – “But how does that…”

There was a deep crease on Hill’s forehead as she stepped closer to the mirror. “Ross has had it out for SHIELD ever since we started intercepting his hunt for Banner. New York, the Avengers Initiative, was just a last straw. He wanted to build a team like this, but out of his loyal soldiers, not with a bunch of superheroes that quite frankly evade every given protocol of every organisation. Ross is part of a certain group of military and political leaders who think it would be best to contain everything paranormal, starting with threats like the Hulk, but not stopping there. They have it out for everything defeating the norm right down to Captain America. Bring it under their command or shut it down, that’s what they’re trying to do and of course, the Director isn’t exactly thrilled of the notion of handing Ross any more explosive…” For a moment, Natasha thought Hill was going to say ‘materials’, but then she concluded: “... people. Somewhere along the lines, this got pretty personal. And now an archer crops up out of nowhere, taking out three of Ross’ friends, one of them a close relative. An archer who could easily be one of the Avengers. We’ve been keeping it small but in all three cases, NYPD beat us to the crime scenes and they’re not exactly tight-lipped. If this gets out, if Ross figures it out and I’m sure he will do that within the next few days, Barton is fair game. We’re hoping for the best possible thing here, Romanov. Either Barton’s crazy and we’ll figure that out while interrogating and watching him so that he can plead insanity, or he’s innocent and then we’ll be able to provide him with a waterproof alibi when the real killer shows up again. One way or the other, he won’t be branded a traitor or even worse, a terrorist. Because if that happens, SHIELD can’t protect him anymore and Ross will make sure he’s locked away for a very, very long time. And I don’t have to tell you what it will mean for the Avengers if one of them is openly convicted as being compromised. Everything Fury built, the entire initiative, would be at risk. Hell, this could mean the end of SHIELD as we know it because once heads start rolling, they keep on rolling.”

Natasha nodded slowly. She understood. “So he’ll be just kept in the dark, right here? You’re not going to tell him?” Hill shook her head, pulled out her cell phone and pressed a few buttons. Tasha’s phone buzzed the moment Maria was finished. “That’s all the intel you’re allowed to share with him. We’re cutting him loose, but we want him on a short leash, not storming off to investigate this himself. You’re to maintain visual contact at all times. We decided that the Stark Tower would be the safest place for him, considering how Ross breached our security systems in the past. Stark knows you and Barton are on protective detail and supposed to remain in the Tower, he thinks it’s because of Banner so he won’t ask any more questions and he said he’d have some rooms prepared for you. If he does, however…” Natasha allowed herself a little smile. “I’ll handle him.” Hill nodded and offered her a short, but firm handshake. “David Thornton will relieve you tomorrow morning, eight sharp. Barton’s your responsibility now, Agent.” – “Thanks, Maria,” Tasha answered, a small smile on her lips. Behind the mirror, Clint lifted his head and answered something. Natasha enabled audio and realized her partner was being briefed right now, same as she had been - or what they called briefing, the level five-version they fed him wouldn’t be enough to content him for long. She felt a rush of relief, even if the news she had gotten hadn’t exactly be comforting. SHIELD was standing behind them. Fury was going to fix this, he always did and until then, she would keep an eye on Clint. She was good at that.

And she’d investigate. They both would. Even if Hill had strictly told her not to - Natasha had been in this business long enough to know the meaning of ‘probable deniability’. Why would Maria even brief her fully if not for this exact reason? Or leave _her_ in charge of looking after Clint, her of all people?

“Oh, one more thing, Natasha.” Hill turned around, already halfway out the door. “Miss Potts called for you. Seems like there is going to be some sort of party for Bruce Banner. A surprise. She asked you and Agent Barton be punctual.”

  
**II**

SHIELD HQ & Stark Tower, NYC | August 22, 2013

Just like that, he was free again. Clint couldn’t fully believe it. His trust had been shaken over the last couple of days and even if they gave him a good explanation now, it couldn’t be restored just like that, with the twinkling of an eye. Thornton cut him loose, taking off the damn cuffs they had put on him every time they interrogated him as if he was a serious threat to their lives. Maybe he had been. Maybe he still was. He didn’t have to be told that there was a good possibility that he’d lost his mind.

Natasha was waiting for him in the hallway. There was no way of telling how long she’d been standing there or if she had been listening to the interrogations, if she was happy for him or angry at him or worried because he’d been locked up for three days and was still considered a flight risk. Her face was a calm, perfect mask like always. When he got closer, however, he met her eyes with a searching glance and that deep look between them told both of them more than they would have dared to speak in front of Thornton. ‘You okay, Clint?’ – ‘I’m fine, don’t worry. You?’ – ‘Oh come on, what do you think? Sorry I wasn’t there.’ – ‘Are you kidding me? You were my freaking happy place!’ – ‘Care for some fresh air? If we go right now, we could still make it out of town, go for a really long hike or something.’ – ‘Do you seriously have to ask?’

They said none of the like. They weren’t alone and even if they had been, they wouldn’t have wasted what little privacy they had on banter as boring as that. “Clint.” – “Natasha.” They nodded to each other, professionally. Thornton handed Tasha the file. She uncrossed her arms, tossed a small bundle in Clint’s direction, then took the brown folder and opened it right then and there. “David, be a dear and help Clint put that on while I’m looking through this, right?” Her voice was ever so unemotional, her eyes already fixed on the paperwork. Clint had caught the bundle in mid-air, at once recognizing the sling she’d bought for him. He looked at Tasha who was very careful to not meet his gaze this time. She didn’t need to. If he was amused, it showed but in Barton’s eyes. Romanov spoke his language. She did so speak his language.

David Thornton shifted slightly. He was clearly not in the mood to play nurse for Hawkeye, but you didn’t argue with Black Widow, not if she said something this sweetly. He had learned that lesson once, after Ecuador. He had learned it thoroughly.  
As soon as the other agent stood beside him, both hands occupied by the sling, Clint made his move. His injured shoulder crashed into Thornton, then he pinned him to the wall with both arms, cutting his enemy’s air supply with his weakened left lower arm, taking a strong swing with the right fist. And hitting something, something soft, directly underneath Thornton’s rip cage. and again, same spot, and then, because three’s the charm, right into the solar plexus. “Clint,” he’s partner’s sharp voice interrupted the fun right then and there, but that was okay because she’d waited for him to throw three punches, she was an angel, seriously, because: That. Had. Felt. Amazing.

Breathing hard, Barton let Thornton down again, watched him convulsing, fighting for a gasp of air, rubbing his neck, almost going down to his knees in pain. Clint wasn’t surprised. That was what the solar plexus did to you and his punches had been precise work, like anything he did. He never missed and he had made sure to not hit anything viable or fragile - just the parts that really, really hurt. “What the hell, Barton,” David coughed, anger flushing his face. He could hardly speak. Oh yeah. Bull’s eye. Hawkeye never missed. “Next time you take me in for my protection, you fucking tell me.” Clint still was pissed, damn, he could have killed this idiot, but now Tasha stepped in between them and gave his left shoulder an affectionate squeeze. The pain brought him back, somewhat. It also reminded Clint where they were, how reckless he had been once more and that he could be lucky his shoulder hadn’t popped out again, by his own fault this time.

Thornton was pretty resilient, judging by the fact that he managed to stand up straight now and breathe almost normally. Once again, Clint made a mental note to never underestimate this man. “We were following orders, we didn’t have a choice…”

Clint wanted to say something sharp, but this time, Tasha was faster than him. “Everything’s a choice, Thornton, and before you go down your self-righteous path again, let me tell you what I think of you. You’re so keen on blindly following orders like Fury’s little lap dog that you forget what this agency’s all about. We don’t lie to our own, safe to protect them. We keep each other safe and we look out for each other – if we have to, even from the directory levels because frankly they _don’t_ have a choice but to play the hardliners. Nobody needs to reinforce that policy any more within operational ranks. We have each others’ backs and we need to be able to trust each other, even if we don’t like each other all that much. So if you pull a stunt like that again, I won’t be here to stop whoever wants to punch you. Hell, I’ll give them a hand.”  
Mouths open, both men looked at her, how she stood there, more ballerina than killer, her red hair flaming with anger, the eyes a flashing green death-ray and yet her voice had been soft, charmingly soft, almost sweet. The threat was far more effective this way.

“Shit, Thornton, I think I just crapped my pants for you,” Clint tried to lighten up the situation. The two of them were good again as far as he was concerned; with Natasha going off like that there was hardly anything else he needed to pile on. “Shut up, Barton. I know you behaved like a dick when they took you.” Clint turned to David, disbelievingly. “You… you told my freaking _partner_ on me? How old are you, Thornton?” Tasha grinned. “He didn’t have to. I know you, Clint. I know how you tick.” 

Played again by a woman smarter than himself, Hawkeye looked at the older agent. “Yeah, well, maybe we were both dicks. I guess.” David pressed his lips together but he was nothing if not the bigger man. He stretched out a hand and Clint took it, giving it a hard shake. That bit, Barton had always admired about the guy. Thornton and him weren’t exactly friends but the guy was ridiculously decent and he actually _had_ been following orders and in a way, Clint didn’t even blame him. Except for the fact that if their positions had been switched, he’d given Thornton some sort of sign or head’s up and he certainly wouldn’t have hurt him physically, no matter how much crap Thornton threw at him.

But, well, that was basically the difference between the two of them. Thornton played by the rules, the perfect white knight, always trying so hard to do the right thing, make the right choices that sometimes he could lose touch with the problem at hand.  
Clint, on the other hand, was a rebel who close to never did as he was told and if he did, it was because the order had been so open that he got to make his own plan of action.  
Thornton didn’t answer. He was looking at Natasha and Natasha was looking back. Clint couldn’t read what was happening between them, but he knew that Natasha’s eyes had that special power to speak louder than words, to bring a man down to his knees. Especially one she’d slept with once or twice. Clint wasn’t sure but he knew she’d left with Thornton twice and knowing Natasha, those hadn’t been cuddly movie-night-dates. Two years ago. Not exactly an affair, Tasha didn’t have affairs. She had needs and she had a pretty high standard on who she slept with, at least Clint had thought that once. After Thornton he hadn’t been so sure any more. Actually, in his opinion, Tasha made the worst choices imaginable when it came to men. It never occurred to Clint that his problem with her mates might actually be the little green-eyed monster, in his eyes, he was just looking out for her and whatever man she picked, he just knew they were no good. He always found faults with them. He resented them. He hadn’t been on peachy terms with Thornton before those two evenings, either, but afterwards he had been sure he hated the guy. He hated his rule-abiding, self-righteous, arrogant, white-fucking-knightly, far-too-well-shaped ass. He loathed him.

But yeah. That was because Thornton was despicable, he was like a fat, white maggot in the bacon that was SHIELD. His superiors loved him, but that was because he licked up to the boss, obviously. And his subordinates loved him, too, although Clint clearly couldn’t see why, considering how strict he was and that he had left Clint behind when he was his handler, that one time. Nah, Thornton was bad news. A bad choice, just one more of the many, many bad choices Tasha had made when it came to men.

Finally, David decided to say something. “Duly noted, Agent.” 

Natasha nodded calmly, all control, her face that perfect, beautiful mask. What was that look she gave Thornton? What was that little smile on Thornton’s face? Clint got busy putting his sling on. He didn’t want to see that, whatever it was. Looked like a flirt. God, please no flirt. Not again. Did the woman EVER learn?!  
Obviously, no, because when Clint looked up from the immobilisation device, they were still having that odd, not-half-as-uncomfortable-as-he’d-wished-for staring contest. Neither of them blinked. Clint felt awkward and he hated that. He felt as though his self-esteem couldn’t get any lower, standing there next to those two, ignored by either of them. Finally he had had enough. “Okay, guys. I’m leaving now. If you want to watch me, Agent Romanov, you better start walking. Otherwise get a room. I recommend outside of this buildings. They have cameras everywhere - unless that’s what you’re going for. Bye, Jacky.” He knew that Thornton hated that nickname, same as he hated his first name, ‘Jackson’, which was why he always introduced himself by his middle name, ‘David’. Clint understood that better than most would think. After all, his own parents had had the bad judgement to name their son ‘Clinton Francis Barton’, not only giving him two names that ended with an ‘-on’, making his name sound utterly ridiculous when you said it out loud (names seriously shouldn’t rhyme), but also giving him a middle name he resented almost as much as he resented Natasha’s lovers. No male being in the world should have to answer to ‘Francis’. He didn’t care about Sir Pirates-rock-but-his-name-does-not Francis Drake. Childhood issues, right there, and his dumbass of a shrink had managed to miss even those.

Clint walked away, just like that and he even managed to convince himself that he didn’t care if Tasha was following or not. After a few quiet words that he didn’t overhear and didn’t want to overhear, however, Tasha came up behind him, catching up with ease. They left the building without another word. “My car,” the Widow told him in a voice that brooked no dissent. Seeing as he had neither his Harley nor enough money to take a cab home right now, Clint followed her dutifully, getting in on the shotgun seat (he wasn’t stupid enough to start a discussion on who should drive right now). He liked riding shotgun with Natasha, as long as she didn’t force her music on him. She had a terrible sense for music, almost as bad as her taste in men. Ballet and opera and all that classical crap, probably because she’d been born in a different era. But right now, there was no music and the silence within the confined space was almost unbearable. Clint decided to man up. He was scared of her answer but he had to ask her, anyways. “Do you think I did it?” He didn’t have to elaborate, obviously, she knew what was going on in his mind. “No.” She answered after a long pause, almost too long, as though she’d had to think it through. Better than too quickly, though, he had never liked the idea that Tasha might be lying to him. He liked to imagine that they didn’t do that to each other, even if he knew they were. Of course they were. Both of them were big fat liars and extraordinary spies and come on, they were trying to keep each other’s noses out of their own business. Lies, deceit, the whole package… it was the job. It was their lives, the only way how they managed to protect at least a little bit of self-respect. Luckily, being partners, they didn’t have to lie about important stuff. Most of the time.

“How… how can you be so sure?” He was glad she saw it like that but he needed to know. Even back in Budapest, Natasha’s thoughts had been of extreme importance to him; although she had been a stranger and his enemy he had wanted her to respect him, to see him as an equal. He had known that she was as good as they came and he wanted to play in the same league as she did. So he yearned for her respect. Which she hadn’t had for him back then, at first, frustrating him on end until she got him to do something stupid.  
“Anger.” She said only that one word, let it weigh heavily in the silence, before she cared to elaborate. “When I came to check in on you five nights ago, you were pissed.” – “I wasn’t…” – “Not at me. But you were in a bad mood. I could tell, Clint. I can always tell. You were angry as hell, frustrated like a caged animal that hasn’t gotten any food or fresh air in months. I’ve only ever known three people who could piss you off like that, all by forcing you to do something you didn’t want to do. And that’s why I know you didn’t go outside and kill these guys. I know you were in that apartment the entire time.”

He frowned. “I wasn’t angry at _you_. I was glad you came. There was no one in there with me the entire time, so… who the fuck are we talking about?” Her smile grew sad, but she was looking to the traffic, not to him. “The three people who can piss you off the most, you mean? Easy enough. First one is me.” Okay, that was hardly a surprise. And it was true. Nobody got him white with rage as Natasha did when she put her heart into it. She was a master of her craft.  
“Second one was Coulson and he’s dead.” There it was again, the pain, a sharp knife right to the heart. His fault. He had gotten Coulson killed. “If you’re thinking of naming Thornton number three, I’ve got to disappoint you. He pisses me off on end, but hardly enough to make that list…” – “Don’t be silly, I’m not talking about David.” David she said and Clint wanted to punch the guy again, this time as hard as he could, so hard he broke something. “It’s _you_ , Clint, whenever you wish you could do something but don’t allow yourself to give in to your whims. I’ve never seen you any madder than when you have to contain yourself. By the way, I don’t blame you. You can be _infuriating_.”

“Hm.” Barton thought about that for a little while, until they had to stop for a red light. So she deduced that he’d only been angry because he’d had to stay in his apartment for two days and he’d hated himself for keeping him prisoner. It made sense, in a way. It sounded just like him.  
The light went green. Tasha took the turn left. “Hey, my building is that direction…” – “We’re not going to your place.” She informed him calmly, her voice a sweet mix of sadism and as-a-matter-of-fact. Clint’s alarms went off right away. “What – wait – whaaat? Where the hell are you taken me?!” She grinned. “Maybe a surprise party, who knows?” Clint huffed. “ _David_ tell you that one?” – “He didn’t have to. As soon as I saw that warrant with your name on it I confronted Fury in his office and threatened to throw a fuzz, so he let me listen in on the OP ‘arrest the hawk’.” – “Please tell me it had another name than that.” – “’Course it had. Operation Blackhawk.” – “Okay that’s even worse.” She chuckled. It was a nice sound and suddenly Clint realized he hadn’t heard it in a long time. Not since New York, actually.

“Okay, but seriously, Tash… where the hell are we going? Safe house?” – “In a way.” _Oh come on, did you really just go all mysterious-Russian-ninja on me?!_ Clint rolled his eyes. “Fine, don’t tell me then. Surprise me.” – “Actually, there’s really going to be a surprise party.” He blinked. Once. Twice. Didn’t help.  
“You’re kiddin’ me, right? I’ve just been branded an international terrorist, a traitor to SHIELD and the US and humanity and if that wasn’t enough they’re also pushing some mental issues down my throat and proclaim me a murderer, assumed guilty until proven otherwise! In what universe is that cause for celebration?!”  
She grinned. “Don’t be a princess, Barton, not everything’s about you, you know. Other people have lives too.” – “No they don’t.” He knew that didn’t make any sense and of course he didn’t mean that, he just wanted to sound sulky and a little bit like a huffy teenager because he knew that would amuse her. And he wanted to hear that chuckle again. He got lucky.  
“True for some people. Or… military property.” She turned her head in his direction, looking at him as if she was wondering something, then, abruptly, she pulled over and stopped the car.

Clint looked at her, trying to not be scared. _What’s up next?_ His eyes screamed it out, he managed to keep a straight face, however. _Stay calm_ , Tasha answered him silently. And he stayed, although every instinct told him to run because if she stopped the car, something was wrong.

“I don’t know if you ever read Banner’s file…” – “Huh. Banner. You’re the second person in the last three days who’s mentioned him. Or… the greenish form of him, sort of.” – “He’s pretty popular these days. More so than you, I might add.” The ironic sparkle in her eyes died as quickly as it had come. “Ever since his first Green-out, he’s been presumed dead, laboratory experiment gone wrong.” – “Well, half of that is true.” – “Yeah. Fury and Pepper have been working together to fix the other half for the last few weeks. And after a lot of calls and emails and bureaucratic nonsense, they managed to get him reinstated as a human being.” – “You’re… you’re kidding me, right?” Clint widened his eyes. “You telling me that this entire time, all these years, the guy’s been… not-human? Legally speaking?” – “He’s been the property of the United States Armed Forces, to be exact. But now he’s not, not any more anyways, and Pepper and Tony thought that that would be cause for some… celebration.” Clint was still frowning. He was happy for Banner, in a way. He hadn’t known that that was an issue, but he was glad it had been resolved and he could understand that this little piece of paper, or whatever document they’d hopefully given him, had made a huge difference, self-esteem-wise and emotionally and all that. It probably had.

He still didn’t get why Tasha had stopped the car, but he knew that this hadn’t been the reason. There was more. And slowly, those parts of information started piecing themselves together. Clint’s face got paler when he realized what this meant. “Wait… wait. _Ross_ … The dead kid. The Colonel. His name was Ross. He’s General Ross’s nephew. And he’s dead. And Ross has had it out for Banner from the start, that’s what Fury said. He wants to contain all superhuman beings or whatever, and with that reinstating-business happening… I mean… This is going right against his plans. Fury crosses Ross’s plans and three of his people turn up dead and the lead suspect is a SHIELD agent who’s also in the same freak-show of a team as Banner…”

Clint stopped right there. “He thinks I did it. Ross coming after me because in his eyes, I’ve got motive. I’m helping with Fury’s master plans to overthrow his political faction, that’s what this is all about! There’s some war between Fury and Ross and I’m just the next pawn they’re pushing around, I’m their new Hulk-substitute, aren’t I? They didn’t just release me because they think I might innocent or just crazy, did they? I mean, they probably don’t even mind if I’m innocent is at this point, Ross wants payback and he’s out to get some the best way he can hurt Fury. Stomping on me first and then… if they discredit me, he can have a shot at the team next. That’s his game, right?” – “I’m your protective detail.” Tasha spoke firmly, calmly, she didn’t ease him into this, but she also tried not to be brutal about it. “We think it’s best if someone can vouch for you at all times, in case it’s not you and the other archer comes back. And even if it is you, if you got… messed up more than I think you have…”, he noticed full well that she avoided mentioning Loki and he was glad for it, “then we’ll know and you can plead insanity. And Fury thinks it’s best that you be kept in the safest place in this city, a place where Ross and the WSC can’t reach you or at least they won’t try just like that.” – “Plead insanity? Seriously? So they can lock me in with a bunch of lunatics?! That’s your great plan, Natasha? Because let me tell you, that _sucks_. And Ross won’t fall for that, it won’t make a fucking difference for him if I’m crazy or innocent as long as he’s got Fury by the balls.” Tasha listened to him going off like that, then, calmly, she answered. “You done with that hissy fit of yours, baby girl?” He gaped at her, and she grinned. “Good. Better get it together. Fury knows what he’s doing. _’Trust in the system.’_ ” Clint blinked. ‘Trust the system’. That had been Coulson’s words whenever he had thrown a tantrum like that, whenever he had lost his belief in SHIELD. ‘Trust the system’. And so far, the system had usually be there to catch him - more or less. If it hadn’t, there had been people to go around the system. Coulson. Tasha. “Never thought I’d hear something like that from you, of all people,” Clint admitted. “Yeah, well, you won’t ever again because that’s the stupidest thing Coulson ever said.” _So… that’s NOT what we’re going to do?!_ He loved how she always thought he’d read her mind when he was completely confused with her. She sometimes gave him more credit than he deserved, obviously, because he wasn’t so sure what she was saying. He just knew that she had fallen silent and that he didn’t want to ask and risk looking stupid. Maybe he’d figure it out himself. Or maybe she would just tell him to tag along at some point and he’d do that.

Natasha pulled the car back into traffic, driving on. Clint wasn’t finished, however, his curiosity getting the better over his pride. “Wait. Wait. Thornton could’ve just told me that back in HQ. He didn’t. He could have turned off the cameras, fed it a loop, no one would ever have noticed. We have people for that kind of thing. You… I wasn’t supposed to know, was I?” He looked at her, shocked and angry and not sure whom to blame, but he needed to blame someone. And this time, he didn’t know how to blame himself. “So, what happens now? You put me into JARVIS-jail until Fury and Ross make peace or find something else to scramble over?” 

She snorted. “Barton, I swear, there are times I think you’re the biggest moron I’ve ever met.” Taken aback, he fell silent. They didn’t talk to each other for a few minutes now, letting the ‘compliment’ sink in as well as the information.

Clint was staring out of the window, but he didn’t pay any attention to the scenery passing in front of his eyes. He was far more scared than he wanted to let on. He couldn’t tell Tasha what was really going on with him. It was impossible, he had known that for months and he had stuck to that and he would keep it like that. For weeks he had been pulling away from her, slowly, so she wouldn’t notice. And he knew he’d been successful in some ways. There had been a time when she wouldn’t have left him alone after an injury like the one he’d had the other day. She’d stayed with him, they would have ordered in some Chinese or something, watched some old black-and-white movies together, preferably something worth a few laughs that made his bruised ribs hurt. And she would have lain next to him at night, wrapping one arm around him, warming him and keeping him company while both their maladies slowly faded away. She would have kept the boredom at bay. But ever since Loki, that part of their relationship had been lost and Clint chose to make it worse on purpose. He had his reasons. He was protecting her and he knew it was necessary.

He had known for quite some time that there was something seriously wrong with him that he didn’t want Tasha to find out, ever. The only way to make that happen was to get rid of her.  
Finally, he snapped out of his dark thoughts and realized Tasha had been looking at him in short side glances ever since they stopped talking, as if to check if he was still sitting there. “Do I really have to go?” He tried not to sound too pathetic, pleading or anything. But she saw right through that, of course she did. “Again. Stop being a princess, Barton. Of course you have to go. I just let you in on a level eight that you aren’t cleared for. Would you prefer I keep you in the dark like some rookie? I didn’t think so. The least you can do in return is shut up, behave like a damn grown-up and give Banner a hearty hand-shake. He has no idea about this whole Ross-situation and you won’t tell him, period. You won’t tell anyone because they’re all freaking level six and it’s none of their business, not yet, and you won’t be a whiny, self-pitying pussy like you are right now. You’ll step up to Banner and shake his hand and tell him you’re really happy for him and then you’ll have some cake and some booze and you’ll do your damn best to enjoy yourself. Because they will _notice_ if you don’t and because you’re a damn professional, not a little kid.” She sounded more and more sweet while she said it, calmly. She was always so placid. He loved that about her. It reassured him and got him back to his usual state which was pretty much the same, although he had a better sense for comedy. He, too, liked to be quiet and calm, having a good grip on himself. He just nodded. “You got it.” She was right. He was a damn agent, and no matter how he felt, how little he wanted to be partying, knowing full well that somewhere in this city he was being proclaimed the poster boy for superhuman terrorism right now, he couldn’t let his friends down. Not now.

So he clenched his teeth, forced a smile on his face and joined the festivity that had been planned by happier people than him. He stood there as Stark dealt stupid hats to everyone. He didn’t want one of those. This wasn’t a freaking kids’ birthday party. But Tasha looked at him with lifted eyebrows, receiving the hat Steve handed her over with a gracious smile and putting it on with so much self-loathing behind her pretty mask that Clint wondered if he really was the only one to see how much she hated this. And so he took the silly hat and the chain of paper streamers Thor had made for him after he had realized just how much FUN these earthly things were and how MANY of those Stark had ordered. Clint felt like a joke, a bad joke, but he stayed anyways because it was the decent thing to do and because Tasha would gut him if he left right now.

And then they went quiet and waited for Banner and cheered when the lights went on and scared the poor guy half to death, and then stood around silently, torturing him into saying something he clearly didn’t feel because Banner hated surprise parties, it was obvious he did. He didn’t even touch his drink. Hawkeye stayed quietly in the corner, talking to Steve at some point and realizing just how hilarious it was to give the guy wrong ideas about the modern world, but also that he didn’t care much for that right now because he wasn’t in a gaming mood, which was a shame because Steve seemed to be so desperate to understand modern technology and he would have been the perfect victim for any prank Clint could have thought of. Then Thor sought him out and started some sort of drinking game which Clint had no intention to follow through with, so he tricked the god of thunder by feeding his drinks to one of Pepper’s plants – the thing would be hung over in the morning, but rather that thing than him. He hated losing control and that was exactly what was happening right now. Also, it was just too awesome watching Thor’s growing confusion as to why the archer seemed to stomach more alcohol than an Asgardian. There was food and drinks and there was laughing and some music Clint had heard around the globe, some of it familiar, some of it completely new, a nice mix if one liked that sort of thing.

And then it happened. A tango, swift and playful and oh, so familiar because he knew that particular piece. The orchestra had played that one in the Royal Palace, in Budapest, the night Barton had first met Tasha. And he’d asked her for that particular dance. He still remembered it and when he looked at her, her toe twitching in the rhythm of the song, he smiled because she remembered it, too, their bodies intertwining and spinning over the dance floor and the music getting faster and faster, more and more passionate, just like the dancing figures they weaved into the night.

It had been magical, in a way, even if both of them had been undercover at the time. Clint exceeded as a dancer, completely comfortable with his body. It came with the acrobatic training and the education at the SHIELD operational academy. Agents had to be good at that sort of stuff, even at looking as if they sucked at it which was infinitely more difficult than just looking gorgeously. They had to be able to get into any character acquired for their undercover ops. Clint had been a great dancer that night in Budapest. On their first mission in Miami, he’d almost crushed Widow’s toes on purpose. Brazen and stupid - that move had had ‘Barton’ written all over it.

And then, just like that, Banner took over the nice memory by asking Tasha for a dance. And she smiled and consented, of course she did, this was Banner’s party after all. Clint felt the rush of envy, but when Tasha stood up, she turned only so slightly to look at him. Their eyes met and for a moment there, the time stood still. Then she turned, followed Banner and kept her eyes on her dancing partner. They looked good together. Clint smiled to one of Thor’s stories about drinking games in Asgard and how no feast was ever proclaimed glorious if there weren’t the two things that made it thusly: Drinking, obviously, until no one could walk in a straight line, and fighting, fighting until all the furniture was in pieces and the landlord was on his knees, sobbing. The image stuck with him, and suddenly, the story wasn’t funny any more. It was cruel and dark and twisted.

The Budapest-flashback stopped just like it had started, abruptly, being substituted by something entirely different.

_’No, dad, no, don’t hurt her, please don’t hurt her, please…’_  
 _‘Clint, don’t!’_  
 _‘You little piece of shit!’ and then pain, pain, coming at him again and again, his ribs, his fingers, oh, no, please no, not the back, not with the belt, no, not the belt..._  
 _‘Dad, leave Clint alone, stop hitting him! Let him go!’_  
 _No, Barney, don’t hit Barney too, don’t, Barney, don’t get involved, don’t take my punishment, help, someone help us, please…_  
 _‘Stop it, Harold, you’re hurting them, you’re killing them…’_

“I wish to one day invite you to such a feast, my hawk-eyed friend. I am certain you’d make your forefathers proud!”

_‘He’s always been a lousy climber. So clumsy. But he keeps on going up that tree, don’t ya, Clint? Well, maybe you’ll grow into something lil’ bit more manly some day, after all, eh?’_

“No.” He only realized how sharp it had sounded when he said it. He only then realized that Thor had still been talking to him, and that he had zoned out and gone back to a dark place he hadn’t been at for quite some time. Shuddering, he poured the memory back into the black pool that was simmering inside of him, let it go, he had to let it go… Thor looked at him with confusion. 

“Sorry, man. It’s just… Pretty sure my father wasn’t that into me. Period.” He clapped Thor on the upper arm and stood up, giving the Asgardian a lopsided grin. “But the rest of the party sounds perfect, “ he lied. “Violence and booze. Two of my favourite things.” He was really lucky Thor didn’t have a grasp on sarcasm yet. That would have been embarrassing.

Slowly, he made his way over to Tasha who had just stopped dancing with Banner, breaking free from the little group and coming up to meet Clint as soon as she spotted him. “Quite the dancer, right?” She wasn’t exactly flushed, but her eyes were glistening happily. “Shame you’re incapacitated right now,” she pointed to his sling and he smiled. 

“Right. I wouldn’t want to risk it. The only way I’d overcome Banner right now was by doing some lifting figures and although you’re not exactly a whale… Twice in a week is enough dislocation.” She punched him on his arm, but she was grinning. “Why, thanks, Birdie.”

Clint drew a face. “Well, I’m glad you’re still consenting to talk to me, even though I’m lousy at giving compliments, not even half a dancer tonight and even though you think so little of my intellect. I can only conclude you keep me on as a pity case anyways.” She gave him the sweetest smile imaginable, one of those smiles that could send icy waves down his spine. He had once seen a mobster burst out in tears just because of that smile. “I’ve always been one for charity. Besides, considering the other guys in our team, you’re still the smartest person around. So I’m sort of stuck with you.”  
He blinked, then laughed at her. “You’re kiddin’ me, right?”  
She looked at him, playfully sincere. “I don’t see why I would.” – “To make me feel better? I don’t know, you tell me. But next to Banner or Stark, I look like a joke. Intellectually. In every other way I’m second to neither of them.” He grinned at her, faking confidence where there was none because yes, he might have been better trained than the scientists in the team, but that was because neither of them needed special training to atomize him if need be. Piling on, there were also a god and an old man who could punch him through the next wall if they chose to. He still hated this party and he hoped they could leave soon. Maybe take a good nap. He hadn’t slept so good in the holding cell and his body was shaken up. He needed the rest. 

Natasha, however, wasn’t finished with the bantering discussion. “I’m not talking book-smart, Barton, you dummy. I’m talking street-smart and when it comes to that, no one in this room can outdo you,” she tipped at his chest with her index finger. “Safe me. But that’s a given at probably anything you compare.” – “Hulk’s stronger than you, sweetheart. And greener. And Banner, I hate to tell you, is probably pretty street-smart. He’s had to run for so long… I bet he could find six of the escape routes out of my apartment in no time.” – “Nine.” – “Nah, you think? Really? Nine?” – “Of course. He hasn’t read our complete SHIELD-files meaning he won’t interpret your bunk bed as some poor effort to stay in touch with your childhood. And that means he’ll figure out the air vents pretty fast.” – “Good point.” – “I’ve got an even better one. _He_ still wouldn’t find all twelve exits. But _you_ would even if you didn’t know where to look.” – “Actually, it’s sixteen exits.” – “ _What?!_ ” - “Obviously, you’ve never been to my bathroom, Tash.” She drew a face. “That’s just… that’s… urgh, seriously, Barton. How much _do_ you hate your place that you’re so desperate to escape from there?!”He grinned at her. Natasha just rolled her eyes at him. “Oh no, don’t give me that. Firstly, you designed those exits, smartypants, and if I’d been to your bathroom I would have figured ‘em all out. And secondly, you’re going a bit far on the whole security-issue, you know that, right? Twelve exits is a necessary precaution. Sixteen ways out of a one-room apartment? That’s paranoia, right there, Clint.” - “Didn’t realize you had evolved into my shrink since we last spoke.” She boxed him on the upper arm, only so slightly. It made him smile. He lived for those few moments a day when he could really banter with Natasha like with no one else. Because no one else really _got_ him.

Barton was starting to enjoy himself. Maybe because they were finally having a conversation he could follow. Maybe because of all the people in this room, Tasha was the only one he trusted. Okay, Tasha and Pepper, but Pepper was a special case. He didn’t talk about important stuff with Pepper. They’d only been friends or something similar to that for a few weeks. They had found out that they shared a love for romantic comedies at some point and since Tony hated those movies, same as Tasha, Clint and Pepper had started some sort of movie-friendship. He’d come over to her place and they’d watch _Bridget Jones’ Diary_ or _The Holiday_ or _Love Actually_ and laugh and wipe away their tears discretely and discuss the plotlines at length, even talk along their favourite lines. And then they’d stay on the couch afterwards, sitting and having a glass of wine or two, and Clint would make one or two snarky comments about his therapy or tell her about the people in his building and Pepper would tell Clint of the trouble she was having with Tony or how well Bruce adapted to life in the Tower. They’d talk about nonsense and the weather and everything non-classified they’d both be interested in. It was astonishingly much. And they’d be glad to have someone to talk to as if they were leading normal, boorish lives, since being the CEO of Stark Industries and Tony Stark’s girlfriend, Pepper Potts hadn’t had a lot of time for a social life during the last few years. She never complained, but Clint had noticed how she got pretty lonely at times, especially when Tony decided to work away the evenings in his workshop. Barton probably was her best girlfriend, coming to think of it. Or whatever.

Tony didn’t know yet and that was fortunate. If Tony found out about Clint’s love for chick flicks, he’d probably never let him hear the end of it. And Clint resented Stark enough as it was. He didn’t need that crap, not from a guy who was so obviously having a man crush on Bruce Banner that it border-lined on the gay. Which was fine, except it made everyone else feel uncomfortable, including (and that was the not-so-fine part) Bruce Banner, as far as Clint could tell from just watching them together right now..

Tasha went on, talked to Bruce some more, and Clint was soon occupied by Thor again who seemed to be oddly interested in his work as a ‘noble warrior of Midgard’ and tried to get Clint to tell him some of his latest ‘adventures’. How was he supposed to explain the word ‘classified’ to a guy who thought secrets and lies were dishonorable crap no true hero should bother with? Clint just tried to keep it simple, spared in the backgrounds and concentrated on the fighting bits, which Thor was more interested in anyways.

They talked to each other, but after a while, Barton was glad Cap came over and joined in on the conversation, giving them some World War II tales and listening to Thor’s adventures with far more enthusiasm than Clint could muster right now. Hawkeye let his gaze wander over their little group, taking everything in. Steve and Thor were hitting it off right now, Tasha was conversing with Pepper, Bruce and Tony had started to have a conversation. Then the pairs switched, Tasha going over to Bruce, Pepper being dragged to the dance floor by Tony. After a little while, Tasha joined Clint’s group to listen to Thor’s complicated family history and the tale of how he’d gotten Mjölnir.

Banner was just sitting there, in close proximity, but on his own nevertheless. Clint thought about joining him, but he didn’t know what to say to the man. They hadn’t spoken a word since the incident in front of the elevators, when Clint had shot down Bruce’s offer to help with his shoulder almost brutally, and even though Clint’s memory of that short intermezzo was pretty cloudy, he suddenly remembered the look on Banner’s face and he remembered Tasha telling him that Bruce hadn’t even been a human being, legally speaking, for the last few years. Maybe he should go. _Apologize_ , although he really wasn’t good at that sort of crap. Hope it wouldn’t be too awkward even though Banner clearly didn’t want to be here anymore, watching Tony with growing dismay and as soon as Clint’s eyes met the fists on Bruce’s lap, he realized what was happening here. Banner hadn’t drunk anything during the entire party. He was twitching his nose when he thought that he wasn’t being watched. He was looking at Tony angrily, even though he probably thought no one would notice that. There was a strain in the air. Barton could feel it almost physically. Bruce didn’t like the fact that Tony was drinking. Which would not have been a problem if Bruce wasn’t also… dangerous. It was dangerous to get that guy in situations he didn’t feel comfortable in. It was dangerous to make him stressed out or angry. Clint tensed up, he didn’t know why exactly but he had the urge to get out of here. Something was going to happen. It had to be stopped.

In the meantime, Tony was bullying Pepper and Clint felt how his hands got itchy. He was about to go do something about it. He hated this, this entire affair. Tony was stupidly drunk and the smell of booze brought back memories same as Thor’s constant babble about battle and proud fathers and noble warriors smashing their puny enemies, distracting Hawkeye just enough so that he didn’t act on his instincts right away.

Suddenly, Banner got up and made a scene, stopping Tony’s attempts to make Pepper dance against her will. Which was great because he was speaking Clint’s mind – and not so great because damn, he was hurting Tony. Everything was moving insanely fast. Tasha and Clint pulled their guns in one swift movement, parallel, neither one having to speak or think about it. Steve tried to calm Banner down, _talk_ him down, but all Clint could think was _Fuck, oh fuck, oh no. He’s getting green, he’s pissed, this is bad, fucking Stark, you had to throw this dumbass party, hadn’t you? I don’t want to die and I don’t want Pepper to die…_ Pepper. _Pepper can’t defend herself. Can’t run away in those stupid high heels she’s always wearing. Pepper’s just a civilian._ His training kicked in, a tad quicker than Tasha’s because she was scared of the Hulk in a way he was not, he had never had a building knocked on him before, he hadn’t seen the Hulk up close yet, apart from the battle where they’d fought side by side. Clint looked out for the one civilian in the room, moving until he stood between her and Bruce, ready to jump right in front of her should the Green One come out and play, shield her with his body if he had to. He could only use his gun with one hand, the other one still stuck in the sling and that SUCKED. He considered ripping it off, but it all went down so fast...

He had started to move, when Banner changed his mind. Clint’s heart was racing stupidly. And Banner left. He just… left, leaving the entire party confused and enraged and scared to hell. Something was off. Clint had a feeling what it was, but he wasn’t sure about it. It was none of his damn business, either, but he felt a connection he hadn’t felt before. Some said that people who had something in common recognized each other. Kids who’d lost their parents at a young age. Kids who had a reason to grow up to resent alcoholic drinks.

Clint was one of these kids, although he drank from time to time. He was careful to never get drunk. He hated losing control, scared of what might become of him if he drank himself stupidly aggressive like his father.

He touched Tasha at the arm, murmuring to her ear. “I’m going after him,” he told her, informatively. “Clint… I’m supposed to keep my eyes on you at all times.” Suddenly, he grew angry. She didn’t get it, she didn’t understand, and how could she? “Then _watch_ me.” Clint took Tony’s tablet from a nearby table, slamming it into her hands. “I bet JARVIS can give you a live feed on this thing.” – “Shouldn’t I be coming with you? You know, back you up?” – “I won’t need backup and you need to calm them down.” Clint nodded towards Thor, Steve and Tony who had started a hushed discussion that sounded angry and freaked out at the same time, and at Pepper who was still standing there like frozen to the spot, tears springing to her eyes. Clint didn’t have time for her, but he hoped that Tasha would show some compassion in his place as he pushed past the other men and rushed after Banner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that's right. You've read five chapters of a bromance-fic. And the so-called friends (or, to be absolutely obnoxious, "bros") haven't even TALKED to each other yet, can you believe us guys?! This is freaking ridiculous. We know that. 
> 
> Only that it isn't. Because you see, there was a short exchange at the elevator. Chapter 1. Remember? So in a way we kept our promise. They're secret BFFs!!! Just that they don't talk. Or look at each other much. Or phone. Or telepathically converse. Or do ANY activity together. But who needs that stuff, right? Anyone can tell how much they enjoy NOT spending time together...
> 
> No, not really. But a head's up for the upcoming chapter: There will be talking. Actual talking. Excited yet?


	7. 6. When I'm Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's Dr Who, cereals, radioactive milk and there's actual talking. We're not screwing with you guys. This one is a big bunch of crazy pink fluff like you've been waiting for from the very start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:**  
>  There's the usual memories of daddys beating their kids, sulky AIs, traumatizing psycho-games and a new sexual orientation we invented for the sake of this fic. Consider yourselves warned.

  
** 6\. When I'm Gone **

_There's another world inside of me_  
 _That you may never see_  
 _There're secrets in this life_  
 _That I can't hide_

_Somewhere in this darkness_  
 _There's a light that I can't find_  
 _Maybe it's too far away..._  
 _Or maybe I'm just blind..._

_When your education X-Ray_  
 _Cannot see under my skin_  
 _I won't tell you a damn thing_  
 _That I could not tell my friends_

_Roaming through this darkness_  
 _I'm alive but I'm alone_  
 _Part of me is fighting this_  
 _But part of me is gone_

 

Stark Tower, NYC | August 22, 2013

 

**I**  


Bruce knew about ‘happy places’. He knew about them like he knew about most meditation techniques, but they didn’t work for him that well. Breathing worked. Yoga worked. Fucking blanking everything worked but if he started to think of the happy place, of flowers and a river and butterflies, it worked for about five minutes and then he became restless. He didn’t believe in happy places. So he worked instead, but sometimes that didn’t help either, because he didn’t have the calm in him, the stillness he needed to get into the flow, to concentrate on making something better.  
If that happened, he would look at Betty. He did it very rarely, ‘cause it felt wrong and it felt right and it felt like he was some kind of pervert or stalker and a little bit like cutting himself. It probably was the latter. It was painful and sweet and pain was tinged with sadness and that sadness let him drown and calmed him to a point where he could start working again.  
“JARVIS… would you put picture BRWD.png on the big screen?”  
The AI didn’t answer, but the picture got there nevertheless. “Silent treatment, huh?”, Bruce asked a little bit sheepishly and pulled his hair. He hadn’t wanted to… “Is Tony alright?”  
Still no answer. Bruce sighed. Really. Silent treatment by an AI. Well, he probably deserved it. He knew that.  
“He will throw me out, won’t he?”  
Quiet. Bruce didn’t mind. He knew his answer. It had been good enough for a while but not even Tony Stark would keep a pet that was fairly amusing and bit him then for no apparent reason. Bruce couldn’t do something like that. He wasn’t allowed to throw hissy-fits or… well. He couldn’t just threaten people, it just… it wasn’t fair. It made them nervous and rightfully so and… oh well. That had been probably the best thing he could have done. The most decent thing to stop this deceive. They shouldn’t start to think him harmless. He was a threat. He was a monster. He most surely was no human being and he shouldn’t be an honoured house-guest or an employee. It didn’t…. _he_ didn’t belong to normal people anymore. Or to extraordinary people.  
Bruce stood behind the couch and looked at the picture. Betty. She was so pretty in her white dress and she smiled like the world was at her tiny feet. She was happy and content and the most beautiful bride he had ever seen. Bruce forced himself to look at the psychologist she had married, at her hand on his arm. It cut through his heart and it made him sad and it made him happy and it made him feel like standing outside, watching in, never really participating.  
How it should be.  
That was his role now. He really should try to keep that in mind.

“Quite the stunt you pulled up there.” Barton had entered the lab unnoticeably, his feet making no sound on the linoleum floors. “Not exactly my kind of party trick, but well. Wasn’t exactly my kind of party either, so what the hell.”

“I am sorry you didn’t enjoy yourself.” Bruce pinched his nose, closed his eyes for a moment and then turned around. Freaking assassins. “You know, it is never a good idea to sneak up on me.” Well, that was bullshit. Bruce didn’t like it, true, but if he would turn green whenever someone jumped him out of a cupboard, screaming ‘Booh!’ Tony would have managed the task long ago. 

“Yeah, well, it’s hard not to sneak up on someone having _such_ a passionate discussion with JARVIS.” Clint offered a crooked smile and he looked somewhat awkward, standing in the laboratory as if he were completely displaced, wearing his street-clothes and looking around as if he’d never been in a place like this before. Or as if he was just some student who had walked into the wrong building at university, and had been caught up in a world that was clearly not his own.  
“Never mind me.” The hawk shrugged, stepping up closer, picking up one of Bruce’s test tubes and looking at the fluid inside - or was he really looking at Betty in her bridal dress, using Bruce’s work as an alibi? 

Bruce realized he should have turned it off by now, but it would have felt like he were ashamed of himself and he wouldn’t do that. It was just a wedding picture. With a happy couple. He hadn’t cut the man out of it and he would never do that. He liked that man. He made Betty happy in a way that Bruce… well. He hadn’t been the best catch before he had made green hip again. “Kinky stuff,” Clint continued, as if he was being arbitrary on purpose.  
He probably was. Bruce cocked his head, taking in Clint’s posture and he resumed what he had learnt about that guy. He hadn’t been questioning people about him, though. He knew Barton was friends with Natasha. Or… something like that. Everything else… he had watched that guy and he thought he knew the type: The sad clown. The one who didn’t let people see that he was sad. Which was quite alright. A life choice he could understand, but Bruce didn’t like how the Hawk had looked whenever he had seen him. He knew that look. And he didn’t want to be around people with that look. It was too much like a freaking mirror. Clint met his gaze, cautiously. By the way he tilted his head he made Bruce realize brutally that the kid in the bagged out jeans and the hooded sweatshirt was so much more than what he seemed, not just a sad little clown. Barton seemed to be fully aware of his surroundings at any time, tense like the string of his bow, ready to jump. Always on the brink of fight or flight. _Fight or flight, yes. Instincts. Killer. On the run. Always on the run._ He knew the kind. Well. At least he had seen some of it. You never really knew someone by just taking a look, but you could make assumptions. And Bruce could make the assumption that Barton was dangerous. It would have been unnerving if there had been anything he had to be afraid of.  
“I won’t hit you, Agent. So…” He cocked his head again. “Or are you here to tell me something?” Barton… Barton laughed. It started as a chuckle, but it got louder and louder until it was a plain out laugh. What was so funny? Bruce blinked, a tad irritated, and put his glasses back on. “I’m… I’m sorry, man.” Hawkeye was still grinning like a dumb thirteen-year-old on a sugar high. “It’s just… Sorry.” He grew more sincere, but there was a spark of amusement that stayed in the steel-blue eyes. “It’s just… You don’t look _that_ pissed off right now. So I’d say we don’t have an immediate code green at hand and… hm. You’re a pretty solid dancer and by the way you move when you’re relaxed I’d say you’ve had at least some training in self-defence, but I still have a hard time imagining you taking’ a swing at me and actually… _hitting_ something. No offence.”

Bruce chuckled. Well. “I _do_ hit stuff. Cushions and… well. No. I don’t. I do not even curse at them although I want to sometimes.” Now he was a little bit confused. He didn’t see why Barton was here. At least… oh.  
It would have made sense, wouldn’t it? Hawkeye was the one who was the least afraid of the other guy. He hadn’t been attacked by him. Tony was even less afraid, the crazy bastard, but Bruce was probably not his most favourite person at this moment. So… Barton. If they wanted to know whether or not he might hulk out, they’d send Barton.  
“I am okay, Agent. No immediate danger of destroying the tower. I’ve just been… a dick.” He shrugged. “It happens.”  
But of course they worried about that. He remembered how they had all been ready to attack. It would have been useless. Well… Thor would have been able to fight him, but probably not to rescue Pepper or Tony or… well. Anyone.  
Bruce sighed again. That had been a reeeeeeally very unwise move. He didn’t even know why he had done it and the memory started to fade already. He didn’t want to think about it.  
He would have taken his bag and been on his way by now, hadn’t he just gotten that parchment. It seemed _rude_ to leave right now. Next week perhaps. Next week sounded okay.  
“Heyyy, you don’t have to apologize to me, Doc.” Clint lifted his hands and grinned. “I was just about to do the same thing, well, I probably wouldn’t have come on _this strong_. Although, who knows. It’s Stark. The urge to punch the shit out of him can be pretty overwhelming at times. Especially when he’s being a prick towards Pepper.”

“... Barton…” Bruce wrang his hands and finally turned the screen off. He didn’t want to look at Betty while Barton was there. It was way too private and this seemed like it would take a while. He still didn’t know why the guy was even here. Unless he just wanted to congratulate him on… well. Hurting his only friend. “What do you want, Barton? Apart from saying you would have done the same mistake as me?” Tony really deserved better than that. He was a good friend, the best. He was… he was warm and kind under this whole rich-kids-have-issues-skin. And Bruce had repaid all his kindness by hurting him. In front of Pepper. Well, wasn’t he quite the catch as a friend?

Barton lifted up his right hand and absent-mindedly scraped the back of his head. “I just… I dunno.” He shrugged, then grimaced at once and cursed under his breath. “Guess I figured someone should check in on you. Or something. Dunno. See how you are. Crap. I’m bad at this whole… touchy-feely-fluff-crap. So yeah, no.” Barton sighed, pulled one of the chairs closer and sat down on it, a vertical crease just above the bridge of his nose. “To be honest, guess I was just bein’ selfish, you know. Figured someone in their right mind should check in on you while everyone else’s freakin’ out and if Tasha had come here instead of me, I would’ve been stranded with the panicking kindergarten up there and trust me, I wouldn’t have made matters better with _them_. Except perhaps for Thor. Guess he was happy about some action and would’ve loved to get some more. I hear our parties suck big time according to Asgardian standards.”

“He has Loki as an adoptive brother and wasn’t glad about me calling that guy crazy. I don’t WANT to know what Asgardian parties are like, they sound like Happy-Pill-Time at the Arkham Asylum with the Joker as party planner of the year.” Bruce huffed. He liked Thor well enough. Well… alright. He didn’t like Thor. To be quite precise, he would have enjoyed earth more with a lot less Asgardian intervention, but that wouldn’t do. Thor was… a nice enough bloke. Oblivious. And he was so much like people Bruce had known at high-school and wanted to forget about and he just… he knew the guy was a sweetheart and everything but that didn’t change the fact that he was _loud_. Tony was loud too, but it was goddamn different. The God of Thunder was an intrusion everywhere and he wanted to fight and he enjoyed it and Bruce really hated that he got UPSET when Bruce had to tell him that he wouldn’t let the Hulk out to fucking SPARE with him. “I am sorry you didn’t like the party but… you didn’t have to come, really. I know that Pepper and Tony probably forced everyone to be there and I am sorry for that, but… well. I can’t promise you that it will be that much better down here. I will probably put on the pan-flute music as soon as JARVIS is talking to me again.”  
He was still wondering why Barton was here. HE hadn’t been manhandled. Why should it be necessary to see if _he_ was ok?

Clint laughed again. “Trust me, Stark can’t force me to do anything. He’s welcome to try, though. I came for Pepper and because Tasha asked me to and she can be quite… persuasive. And because it was the _right_ thing to do, sort of, I guess. You getting reinstated and all. I’m just not that good with… the team, you know? Having a bit of a hard time adapting. Especially when they’re all crowding in one big room that’s suddenly getting kinda… cramped. Just too many egomaniacs in one big bunch.” He frowned, curiously tapping one of Bruce’s Bunsen burners, like a kid that had been let into dad’s study for the first time and had to fight the overwhelming urge to just touch everything. And apparently, he wasn’t done talking, either. “But we’ll manage. Somehow. I hated Natasha at first and in time we made good partners, anyways. It’s all about the trust and until we’ve build that, we’re a fucking boiling mess waiting to blow up. And I don’t like that.” Suddenly, he looked a bit taken aback, as if he’d come to think about what he was saying and regretted it. Maybe it was because of the rudeness. Maybe because he had realized that he’d been rambling on and on. “I mean, I came for you, as well. Obviously. I was just saying… I mean it was Pepper who asked Tasha and it was Tasha who asked me, so no Stark and that was probably better. He and I… Crap, the two of you are buddies, so I’ll spare you my thoughts. From now on, that is.” He looked as if he was about to shrug again and managed to stop himself in the last possible moment.

Bruce tipped his head to one side, searching Barton’s face for… well something. “Did Tasha tell you to say that? The thing with the blowing up, I mean?” Time-Bomb. He knew the feeling. He had been the bomb, obviously, but… well. It was strange to hear these words. And then he shrugged and sighed and sat on the back of the couch, because it seemed rude to stand the whole time, looking down on Hawkeye. Hawkeye who seemed to have problems trusting Captain America. Which was… oh well. Who was he kidding? Bruce knew about trust issues but he also knew a thing or two about this team. You could trust all of them. But only IF you could trust at all. Bruce trusted himself. At least he had… he had been _good_ , away from everything, but here… here he had started to feel like in the beginning. Like he would betray everything, hurt everyone. It was sad, really. He knew that. He just couldn’t change it. Steve was the one Avenger who trusted him even less than he did himself. Wonderful, considering the fact that Cap was supposed to be their team leader. Bruce was just glad that they didn’t need him normally. He avoided coming with them as long as there was any way around it. And up till now, they seemed pretty okay with that. 

“Wha-... No.” Almost defensively, Barton’s head jerked up and there was a spark in him, rebellion, anger. Sarcasm. “No, she didn’t. I know I’m not that _smart_ , probably plain out _dumb_ according to _your_ standards, but I do have a brain of my own, you know. Every now and then I get really adventurous and guess what, I dare _using it._ ” He snapped his fingers, provokingly. “Just like that.”  
“I am sure you could enlighten the entire Stark Tower, Agent. Oh, no, that was mean. And I didn’t mean it that way; I’m just still in bickering-mode. I don’t...” Bruce sighed and waved a hand. Right. Barton DID seem sincere. “It’s just that I said that on the Helicarrier. That we were a time-bomb, not a team. Seemed like too much a coincidence, but I am really sorry for assuming.”

For a second there, Barton had a strange look on him. Not angry, that wasn’t it. More like… sad. As if what Bruce had said to him actually hit him somewhere deep, somewhere vulnerable. But he got a grip on himself so fast that Bruce wondered if he had actually seen it or just imagined that Barton could look like a kicked puppy. The hurt just vanished as if someone had flipped the switch and there it was again, the guarded, calm mask of the marksman, emotionless, distant, ever watching his surroundings, but maintaining a secure distance at the same time.  
“Barton…,” he started again, because it seemed like he SHOULD say something, make it totally clear what had just happened. “I am a freak of nature. I don’t think you’re dumb. You’re a SHIELD-Agent, I suppose you’re IQ is above average. It’s just that I am living with Tony Stark. At the moment. There’s… we pretty much eat our pancakes with sarcasm. It’s a contest and I am not really fit to be around normal people.”

“Relax, man. It’s fine. I’m not… _fragile_ or something.” Barton shrugged again and then rolled his eyes, his jaws clenching tight against the pain. “Yeah, above average my ass…” he murmured, obviously more to himself. “And… well, I think we can discuss this at length and you’d probably win that contest but I wouldn’t exactly say I’m… ‘normal’ in the common sense of the word. I mean, I get it. My average day involves meeting gods and billionaires and spies and guys that should have been dead seventy years ago. Compared to you guys, I’m pretty damn _regular_ , yeah. Regular Guy in a bunch of fucking _heroes_. Everyone’s favourite pity project.” Clint grinned, as if he wanted to show that he wasn’t serious. He sold the joke well, though. Maybe a tad too well.

Bruce looked at him, really looked at him and then sighed. Well. How had it come to that? He had just hurt his only friend in the world and now there was an archer with… issues… in his lab. “Barton… you meet gods and billionaires and spies and a guy that should have been dead seventy years ago. Being the regular guy compared to them doesn’t really make _you_ regular. Best marksman in the world, the last time I looked that up. Go into a sports bar, I’ll bet you anything that you won’t be quite so regular there. Besides… regular sounds kinda…” Nah. He wouldn’t say _nice_. He wouldn’t be fishing for pity; that wasn’t why they were here. And then Barton surprised him because for a moment there, it seemed as if the archer could read minds. He froze up again, looking positively ashamed. “Gosh, man. I'm... sorry. I'm stupid. Seriously.” He bit his lower lip, chewing on it like a kid that had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Listen, just... forget I ever said that, alright? I didn't mean it. I blabbered on and on and you didn't stop me, so... Yeah. I told you, fluffy-cuddly-feely stuff. Not my area of expertise. Just…” He shrugged, pain flashing over his face for a moment, then frustration (probably with himself). “I can leave. You don't have to put up with me if you don't want to. Or whatever.” Again, it looked as though Barton wanted to say more while he stood up and put the chair back where he found it, but he stopped himself for quite a while until it burst out anyways. “Or... stay. If you don't want to be alone. Which... okay, that's dumb. Because you obviously wanted to be on your own. Yeah. Gotcha. Sorry.” He was still hesitating, fidgeting on the spot.

Bruce still didn’t really know why they WERE here except for the fact that Clint didn’t care that much for Tony or… well. Parties. Bruce-Banner-is-a-human-parties. Bruce thought the party had been nice. Really. And now he was here and he needed something to get his mind offline. And he had an archer hiding out, watching him to make sure he didn’t turn green. And now it seemed like he had made that archer talk about feelings which wasn’t his area of expertise. It wasn’t Bruce’s either. Bruce wasn’t a shrink but out of some unfathomable reason people started to _talk_ with him about stuff they didn’t want to talk about. He had wanted to ask Natasha how to make that go away. It started to become distracting. But now he was here and Barton seemed to think that he had somehow offended him or hurt his precious feelings about not being ‘regular’. “You’re a Whovian, Barton?”

This time, it looked as if he had broken Barton, switched off his brain and just frozen him in the middle of a motion. Finally, though, the agent blinked, once, twice, several times actually, as if he was trying to find a non-embarrassing way to say something, but couldn't actually wrap his head around what he wanted to say in the first place. “Aaaaah... is that a sexual orientation thing? Because no hard feelings, I mean, tolerance and all but I'm actually... pretty straight. Sorry.”

Bruce shot him a look over his glasses. “And I am pretty much not able to perform any tasks that would increase my heart rate more than a cup of coffee. Apart from that you’re way too young, way too much Tasha’s and I would deeply hurt Tony’s feelings if I started to have gay experiments with another man than him, because he wouldn’t feel pretty anymore. Well... at least that would have been the case until today…”For a moment it looked as if Clint was about to say something, maybe even object to this statement. But then he just closed his mouth again after opening it, without producing any sound.

Bruce looked up to the ceiling and hummed a little under his breath. Well. This was certainly a new one. New situation. “No, Barton, a Whovian is someone who likes a special TV-Series. And nothing kills talks about feelings as well as some timey-wimey-stuff and Daleks beeping ‘EXTERMINATE!’. I’ll get us… cornflakes.” He would have gone to get popcorn, but that was in the kitchen and going back up there right now, where he might run into one of the others… no. But they were in _his_ lab. And Bruce had started nesting, it was obvious in some ways and pretty disturbing. So he stood up, went to a cupboard and got Choco-Pops and milk out of the freezer with all the bio-hazard-stuff. He looked at the milk again and put it back. Wouldn’t kill him, wouldn’t kill Barton. But he didn’t want the archer to grow a new eye or something like that. “JARVIS, would you give us Dr Who, first episode of the fifth season of the new series?” 

The TV went on, but the AI didn’t say anything. “Thank you, my quiet friend…”  
“Oh come on, cut it out already, JARVIS. He said he’s sorry. Not everyone’s okay with drunken people pushing the not quite so drunk people around, even if it’s a freakin’ party. Stark had it comin’ the moment he stole Cap’s tie.” Barton had found a blanket in some corner - Bruce’s bed from a few nights ago - smelled at it, raised his eyebrows shortly and then just put it on the floor right in front of the couch, sitting down cross-legged as if he was preparing for a picnic. “You realize I didn’t understand a word you said about that series, right?”

“Hush, puny human! You will be upgraded!” Bruce gave him a cup with Choco-Pops and tried to not feel… homey. Like at a slumber party. “That was Cap’s tie, huh?” – “Yeah. Figures, though, right? From all the people in that room, who would a) wear a stupid tie for a surprise party and b) be nice enough to just let Tony have it without a fight?” Clint took the cup and smiled in a slightly insecure, but nevertheless warm way. “Thanks.”

Bruce settled in on the couch, watching the intro and the eleventh doctor making friends with Amelia Pond, then getting back waaaay to late so she had to wait and miss him for ten years. Ten years… he had been on the run for pretty much that time. Funny to think about that. Funny how easy it had seemed to stay for a while, to settle, to feel… like he belonged somewhere. But he was just a nuisance, really, and JARVIS was quite right to give him the silent treatment. He had hurt his master. Bruce thought that the AI was a wonderful being for being able to… well… _sulk_. 

He watched the screen for a little while, still thinking, because he was Bruce Banner and he just couldn’t stop sometimes. Bruce knew that Clint didn’t want to talk about feelings. He had made that pretty clear, but Bruce... well. He hadn’t thought that someone would think about his reasons. Not when he had attacked someone. But it made sense, probably. Barton was constantly watching everything. People just didn’t give him enough credit for that.  
“I am ok, Barton,” he said and smiled and didn’t take his eyes from the TV. “I really am. I overreacted, is all.” He used the same voice as he had back then. People had to believe that everything was fine and then he would start to believe that too. It wouldn’t do if people started _worrying_. Especially about… well… him not being able to handle drunk guys.

**II**

Clint lifted his eyebrows and was glad in the very next second that Bruce couldn’t see him do it, given that he was seated behind the agent, well, a little bit to the right; but with the lab being pretty dimly lit and that strange _gaudy_ series flashing over the screen, it was luckily hard to catch expressions. “Yeah, I know,” he finally just answered calmly, as if what Bruce had said had been a bloody cast-iron fact. He knew that tone only too well, the casual ‘I’m fine’ and the slight smile accompanying it. Hell, this was _his_ answer. Bruce had seriously just tried to fucking _barton_ him, telling Clint he was fine when really he was completely messed up. As if that would work. As if Clint would for just one second believe in that load of crap.

But he also knew enough about that tone to figure it was best to just… accept it. Because that lie wasn’t just a kid trying to be brave, he knew it wasn’t. It was someone hanging to his self-respect by his very fingernails, desperate to not seem weak, to protect what was inside at any cost. Clint had seen a great deal of messed up people in his short life, but the only ones who’d been _this_ convincing at lying about their emotional and/or physical state through their teeth were the ones who’d learnt how to by shame and broken trust and coercion because they were scared that if they’d tell the truth, they’d only make matters worse for themselves and the people they loved. He knew about that sort of dependence and he… damn, he knew that tone.

_‘Okay, Clint, your dad’s gone out to grab a smoke. You can tell me now. How did you get that cut?’ - ‘I… fell down the stairs.’ - ‘It’s okay, Clint. You don’t have to be afraid. I won’t tell your dad. Just tell me the truth, kiddo. Come on. What happened to you?’ - ‘Nothing. Just… clumsy. Is all.’ - ‘Clint, if you dad’s hurting you, you have to tell me. It’s the only way I can help you, do you understand that?’ - ‘I’m fine.’_

“So what about this show, man?” He had been watching it, okay, he had been _thinking_ while pretending to look as if he was stricken with the program, but he hadn’t been thinking _that_ hard and twenty minutes into the first episode, he was completely lost. “Is there supposed to be some secret code in there or somethin’? Because I seriously have no idea why anyone in their right mind would watch this. I mean, granted, it’s… colourful. Sort of funny. Or whatever. But… what’s the plot? What’s the whole point of this… doctor guy?”

“He is brilliant, Barton.” Bruce snickered and ate another spoon-full of cereals. “In the beginning, no one understands what’s it all about but after a while you forget to care. It is….” He hummed under his breath, cocking his head this way, then that way. “He is some kind of Robin Hood and Peter Pan, really. He helps people without wanting something in return and he does it without violence.” He smiled, a calm, dreamy sort of smile. He had a lock of hair hanging into his eyes and he had pulled his feet close to his body, up on the couch. The cereal-bowl was balanced on his knees. He looked like a kid. A kid with grey hair and weary, wary, _tired_ eyes. “It is nice. Nice little fairy tale.” 

Clint nodded, watching the program with slightly narrowed eyes. He could see what Banner was talking about, in a way. “So it’s all about escaping reality.” He got that. Actually, he liked that bit. Of course the show was crazy and all and it didn’t make any sense, but this was actually… nice. He ate some of his cereal, suddenly realizing something else. It had been quite some time since a guy had made him… breakfast. Or whatever. There was a joke in here somewhere, but he wasn’t sure he’d tell it right. Nah, not a joke. Just another memory. This day started to feel like going to some sort of weird psych-museum with Budapest and the ER popping up in his mind and with Barney, handing over a bowl of cereals and mussing up Clint’s hair and calling him ‘Crumbs’. Maybe that was because that show was about time-travel or space-time-travel or whatever. Science-fiction-stuff. Although he sort of liked that blue box-thing. He liked the weird noises. “This one of your favourite shows?” It was sort of crazy how little he knew about Bruce Banner. He hadn’t even memorized the guy’s SHIELD file yet. Not even the short version handed out to all Avengers before their first briefing (which he had missed, duh), that Hill had presented him with when she declared him a frozen asset until psych eval declared him fit for action. Maybe she’d thought he’d like the read while he waited to be reinstated. He actually hadn’t. He’d been to the Rockies for a week, running away from his shrink whom he didn’t want to talk to, climbing and hiking and doing all sorts of crazy stunts he probably shouldn’t have risked. Well, maybe he’d hoped to have an accident and get eaten by wolves. Maybe he was just an adrenalin-junkie. 

“Yeah.” Banner nodded, eyes still fixed on the screen, a small smile tugged to his lips. He moved his lips, mouthed a sentence out of the show together with Amelia Pond. He obviously knew it by heart. Of course he did, figures, the show looked like nerdvana or something and Bruce was, in any sense of the word, a nerd. As if that hadn’t been clear already, Banner decided to pile on all the TV series he liked to watch. “I’m also a fan of _Full House_ , _Gilmore Girls_ and _Friends_. Gosh, I _adore_ _Friends_. That something you would prefer to watch or can I proceed to make you a decent Whovian and therefore a better human being?”

Clint chuckled, once more. He didn’t exactly know how or why it kept happening, but there was something about Banner that made him feel at ease. Banner was just so… _nice_. Clint didn’t hold the little outburst against him. Clearly, there was more to Bruce’s dislike of Tony drinking than just prudishness, but that was none of his damn business just like Clint’s past was none of anyone else’s business. As far as anyone else was concerned, they’d probably both had happy childhoods, more or less. No reason to go beg for pity. He didn’t want pity and he understood without having been told so - or at least he thought he understood - that Bruce was quite similar to him in that respect. “Never seen _Full House_ , I hate _Friends_ , but the _Gilmore Girls_ … man, they rock. Especially that fat cook. And this stuff,” he used his spoon to point lamely at the show numbing any sense of aesthetics with bright colours and absurd quotes, “that I like too, I guess. Sort of. Not sure yet.” He grinned. “So I figure by your list of choices that you’ve never watched _Dog Cops_ before, huh?”

“I don’t think I want to know what _Dog Cops_ is. It sounds like I don’t want to be here when you show Thor and Steve. And you don’t hate _Friends_. No one hates _Friends_ , Barton.” Banner shot him a look that seemed to be his version of mock-hurt. He kept quiet for some time but he then sighed and closed his eyes and did this thing where he pinched his nose and looked twenty years older and as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders. Tired, really. “I didn’t know about the new Dr Who series. Suppose it made me a little bit sad to have missed it and the next day, Tony sat me down and we watched it from start to end. He didn’t allow me to stand up for one minute. It was like being held hostage in Nerdwania.” He smiled again, just that tired, self-conscious thing that looked like someone had just killed a puppy. “I really shouldn’t have done that.”

This time, Barton was sure for a few seconds that Banner had lost him. He turned and looked back at the other man, mustering him as he sat crossed-legged on the couch and… what? What was that? Grief? Doubt? Guilt? Self-loathing? It wasn’t positive, that was for sure. And then, finally, something made *click* and Clint realized what Banner might be talking about, figured out the mental leap from Dr Who on to Tony, who’d made Bruce watch the new season in one go, on to what had happened at the party. And he felt anger rush up inside of him because Bruce was a sweet guy and Tony had been a dick and seriously, no one other than Bruce or Pepper could even stand Stark this long. Barton sure couldn’t. Stark didn’t deserve either of them and he sure didn’t deserve pity because he was too stupid to hold his liquor. Maybe that was why he set the cup down as forcefully as he did, not really caring that he risked spilling some of the chocolate chips over Bruce’s (smelly, but who cared, no judging here) blanket. “Yeah, you should have. Maybe not with the green rush, but yeah. He didn’t deserve the green, he definitely deserved what you said to him. Guy’s a nutcase. He was drunk and self-centred and egotistical and I only wished I had been a bit quicker about doing what I felt was right in the first place. I should have just dragged Pepper out of there, engaged her in some sort of conversation or whatever, considering how messed up you get for once in your life speaking your damn mind. Because seriously, man, you are entitled to an opinion. You even have a formal document that says you are. _Damn._ ” He stopped right there, as if something important suddenly had occurred to him and when he continued, his voice had grown ironic. “Don’t even know if I’ve got a scrap of paper like that.” He grinned.

“He’s not a nutcase. And… I really don’t even know why I did that in the first place.” Banner scratched his head, looking deeply in thought and somehow troubled and then puffed out a mouthful of breath. “He wants me to enjoy myself and I slam him into a wall. It’s not the same thing as having an opinion. It’s not even just a threat, coming from the monster.” Bruce looked up at the ceiling, closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again he smiled and looked like everything was alright, like he had just asked if Clint would prefer fruit loops. “Why do you hate _Friends_? I have to work against this crime against nature as long as I can.” 

Clint didn’t know what to say to that. How to react. Bruce saw himself as a monster and yeah, well, he was right. Sort of. Clint knew the feeling. Not the exact same feeling, obviously, he had never been exposed to gamma radiation, but he knew how it felt to walk around and feel like you’d been switched into a completely new person, like you were carrying around a second _you_ , a _darker_ you that was ready to kill all your friends on a whim, as soon as you switched your conscience back off, just because that would be _fun_ , just because you secretly _wanted_ to. He decided to drop the subject, just as simple as it had come up. Drop it down into that black pool and never look at it again. “I don’t know, they’re lame and stupid and not half as funny as they think they are? I’m more of a _How I Met Your Mother_ -kind of a guy. I could just as well ask you why you won’t even consider watching _Dog Cops_. It’s the best thing ever. There’re like these dogs, but they’re also policemen and they solve crimes and get into trouble and stuff. It’s freaking hilarious. And adorable.” When he said the last bit, he made big sad puppy eyes in Bruce’s direction, batting his eyelashes in a way he’d learned from Natasha. The puppy eyes probably weren’t as good as Bruce’s, especially because Bruce was way more cuddly than Clint and had sad brown eyes, and he wasn’t half as sexy as Natasha when he did the blinky-thing and pouted, but maybe that’d do the trick anyway and cheer Banner up a little bit. Hopefully. The last thing they both needed was another dive into the realm of feely-cuddles.

At the mention of _How I Met Your Mother_ , Bruce’s face went darker for a second, a little bit like he was in pain, but it was gone soon enough. “Yeah… that sums up my thoughts. You really get what is advertised by the title _Dog Cops_ , huh?” For a moment he smiled there and looked at Clint like he was about to say something… well. Something comfortable or silly or just way not feely-and-self-conscious-stuff.  
“Hey, better that than a series proclaiming to be about ‘Friends’ when it’s really just one big hippy-hype on who’s sleeping with whom this evening.” He smiled as he said it, he didn’t want to hurt Bruce’s feelings or anything, this was just him, finally getting the hang of the playful banter between Bruce and Tony. It was a lot like talking to Natasha, except you didn’t have to be as careful what you said and you didn’t get punched every time to made a point. He was about to add something, pile on the humour… and then something beeped. 

Bruce looked around and took one look at some kind of Stark-Device on a desk. It seemed to be some kind of pager. High-tech-sci-fi-is-too-low-tech-for-Tony-Starks-labs-pager. Clint frowned shortly, trying not to look too curious. He hated secrets when they were kept from him. And he loved secrets if he got to learn them… “That’s not what it is about.” Bruce took a look at the pager and sighed. “It’s about being a family. There is sleeping around, sure, but mostly, they are just people who care deeply for each other and want to help and be there. It’s different than HIMYM. I never get the feeling that the people there actually LIKE each other, just slapping and drinking and mocking all the time. JARVIS? JARVIS, I know you don’t talk to me, but could you please send Director Fury a note that I don’t think I should be wasting…” He paused, cocked his head and sighed. “Oh, no, that would be rude. Tell him alright and put that shrink-assignment in my calendar, please.” 

Clint leaned back against the couch, listening to Bruce as he did so, watching him with seemingly unconcerned eyes. He had turned almost completely away from the screen, his attention linked to the man he was talking to. That wasn’t good, was it? Forcing Banner into a situation anyone would be uncomfortable with. Shrinks sucked. But well, on a positive notion, he’d gotten to learn the secret. Not a secret after all, as it turned out. When Bruce had finished talking to the AI, Clint frowned ever so slightly. “Psych out to get you too, huh?” There was a little twitch in the corners of his mouth. “Who did they assign you to? Turner? Philips? Please tell me it’s not Howard because trust me, those two hours will feel like _ages_ when you’re with Howard. That woman’s just sitting there in her office that smells like old lady and kittens and _waiting_ for you to talk. And she’s _knitting_ the entire time. It’s like you’re not even there. It’s like torture, but with a lot less variety. Trust me, I’ve been there.”

“You have a star-system for the Shield-shrinks?” Bruce chuckled and smiled and looked... okay. A little bit tired, quite resigned but not as if he were bothered by any of that.  
If Clint had a star-system for the SHIELD shrinks? Of course he did. Every senior field agent had one because every last one of them had been with at least two shrinks in their time. The first one to do your eval when you started the Academy and the second one for every trauma you went through. If you managed to piss of said shrink, they’d assign you to a new one. Clint had been all over the department, almost like a psyche-whore. And he’d never given them anything. He was proud of that. Psych hated him and that was exactly how he wanted it. He didn’t need anyone poking around in his head, not Turner or Philips or Howard or, well, Martin. “How else am I gonna pass the time?” He took out one of the Chocolate Chips and threw it in the air, catching it with his mouth. Bruce smiled and managed to provide Clint with an answer, which was pretty damn amazing considering that the topic was all messed-up. At least in Clint’s opinion. “But the not-talking sounds nice. I might be able to enjoy a cup of tea while she’s knitting. But no, they gave me Martin. Doesn’t matter, really, I never met one of the SHIELD-shrinks but...” There should have been something more. More words, but Banner caught them before they escaped and just smiled again. 

Something in Clint froze up. Was he being played? What sort of a weird coincidence would that be, if out of maybe forty shrinks working for SHIELD in New York, Bruce got the exact same moron that Clint was currently trying to get rid of? _There are no coincidences. Not with Nick Fury, that is. If there even_ was _a message, if Bruce didn’t just make that up to get me_ talking _… Get the subject to my shrink for some reason._ He had been trained to be suspicious. It was his job to be like that, this was the only way one survived out there. “Martin, huh.” Clint shrugged, regretted it and had to fight the urge to just rip his sling off. If he felt the weight of his arm again, the pain rising up a few levels, maybe he’d stop moving the damn shoulder all the time. Or he’d make it worse. Worst case: Tasha would see what he was doing and come down here to force the sling back on him. And so he remained calm, at least on the outside. He realized he had to say something, if he didn’t want to arouse Bruce’s suspicion. “Martin’s… a kid. I mean, he’s like this genius little kid. He’s got two doctorates and everything, at the age of twenty-two. Fury probably thought you two might hit it off, brain-bros or something. I don’t see it happening, though. Kid doesn’t own a TV. He wouldn’t even know what _Friends_ is. The good thing about that is that you can just give him a plotline from a movie or a TV series if you don’t like his questions. And he’s, like, asking all the time. Feelings and childhood and stuff. Nothing anyone in their right mind would want to talk about.” _Enough_ , Clint told himself. _Shut up. You’re talking too much. He’s not stupid, he’ll get that you’re hiding something if you keep on blabbering about Martin. Just turn around. Watch Dr Who. Eat your cereal - and hope you can change the damn subject somehow._ And that was exactly what he did. Turning away, slowly in order to not seem anxious about it, focussing on Dr Who and on his cereals and on the many, many things in this episode he seriously couldn't understand. But that wasn't so bad. It was still a distraction that Barton was very, very grateful for.

“And you think an intelligent person doesn’t get something from you telling plotlines?” Bruce sat there and looked at him, looked at him for a moment, like he was very, very deep in thought. “Barton. Clint. I enjoy feel-good-stuff. _Friends_ and _Full-House_ and stuff where there are people happy together. You enjoy Dog-Cops and the fact which plotlines you tell is telling in itself. Just a tip if you really don’t want to tell the shrink anything. You’re not a very good liar, Clint, so I suppose he knows that you tell him plotlines. It’s like... well. It’s like it is quite telling, WHEN they chose to send my orders to get an appointment.” 

Clint considered that for a moment. “Huh.” He frowned. “Nah. I’m a pretty damn good liar. I managed to convince Tasha that I was a self-centered, happily grown-up, spoiled rich kid when we first met. She thought I was a real dumbass. Well, okay, so she got that part right,” he grinned, “but seriously. I played Tony-freakin’-Stark without the genius bit and. She. Bought. It.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Try it out sometimes. She’s like a lie detector. I mean, that woman… she’ll see right through you, usually. She still hates the fact that I played her back then. Not trying to brag here because that’s not something normal people are proud to admit but yeah. I can be a damn good liar if I put my heart into it.” - “Even Natasha Romanov has her buttons. Well. I have the unfair advantage that she’s afraid of me, but it doesn’t change facts. Do you know ‘Three lies’, Barton?” Clint just shook his head. This conversation was starting to get way more personal and deep than he’d ever wanted it to be. It freaked him out. Banner read him like a book or at least he seemed to think he did. Clint hated it when people did that. Just… hated it. “It’s a game of sorts. And a shrink-training. You tell three facts. Two of them are true, one is a lie. The other party has to guess which one is the lie.” Bruce smiled and it seemed serene and like he wasn’t really there. “You wanna start or shall I?”

Clint blinked, once, twice. Then he had a grip on himself. He didn’t like this. At all. But yeah, well, how could he save face and still decline the offer? There was no possible way. Damn geniuses. They always got you. They just twisted the conversation around and around until you couldn’t get away, until you were caught in their spider’s web like a helpless little fly. _I don’t want to play this game. I hate this game already._ “I get the feeling it’s foremost a way of coercing truth out of your victim. I mean, no matter if you guess right or wrong, you’ll learn at least one fact about me in each round. That hardly seems like a good way to determine which one of us is the better liar.” _No matter what I tell you, you’ll learn stuff about me. And I don’t want you to. I really don’t. It’s none of your damn business. I’m none of your goddamn business._

“So I start.” Banner was still smiling, that damn, smug bastard. He looked up, thinking and then he held up his hand to count of his fingers. He was pretty damn emotionless when he talked, he looked and sounded like he gave Clint the best way to brew fucking Oolong. “One. I killed my mother. Two. I never finished high-school. Three. We are here because you don’t talk to your shrink and I was sent to interrogate you.”

Clint had watched Banner as closely as he could in the half-dark, trying to notice any flinch, any eye-movement, anything at all that gave the lie away. And he screwed up. Tasha had spent hours teaching Clint how to read people and he was good at it, but here he was, having cereal with Banner, Dr Who flickering away in the background, and he couldn’t get a damn read on the guy. Maybe it was because of the things Banner said. None of them sounded true. They all sounded like lies, but two were real, that were the rules. This game freaked him out, even more now than when Banner had explained it to him. In the end, he looked at his opponent disbelievingly. “Okay, you’re good, I’ll give you that… so… that just happened. How was that? One false, two true? Because I get the feeling here that whatever we say doesn’t have to be strictly true, as long as it’s open to interpretation.” He received a short nod from Banner, nothing more. The guy was really careful to not give anything away. “Okay.” Clint cleared his throat. “So I guess we both know you’re not the psychopathic type who’d kill his mum in the conventional way. But I’m not sure I want to go with that one because… well, like I said, interpretation and stuff. Maybe it was an accident or maybe you blame yourself for something you couldn’t have changed anyways. I’m having a safe bet that the high-school one is true. Of course you didn’t finish it. You probably spent one year there before going straight to MIT or whatever. And I can’t really tell if you were sent here to spy on me, but although I think Fury would definitely do that to you and to me, he couldn’t have possibly known I’d come down here after you. So maybe he got you to do it with that text message. You were hesitating before you said yes. And there’s no way it’s a freaking coincidence we got the same shrink.”

Clint frowned. “Nah, but you’d want me to think that. You’d _love_ me to go with the mother-bit because it’s just so unimaginable and dark that anyone would want to believe you made that up. And I think that’s your play because you’re hellishly smart and I’m starting to think you, Sir, have some sort of twisted little mean guy inside of you. You let people believe you’re harmless. And then you strike. Sorry, man, that's actually my move. I’m gonna go with the third option and hope I’m wrong. Fury didn’t tell you to do this. Or if he did, you said no. Am I right?”

“I am not the psychopathic type even though I just slammed my best and probably only friend into a wall for… nothing. Interesting. And I would love to hear your interpretation of ‘conventional’ murder.  
By the way, did I mention you don’t have to explain yourself in the end?” The cheeky bastard started grinning. “It would destroy the whole… well. Of course you can build on former assumptions in the next round. It’s the whole reason of lying, isn’t it? It’s quite the safe assumption that I have learnt more about you than you about me. And Natasha can testify that I _am_ mean. I never pretended to be anything else.”

Clint shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Wait, what? I don’t even get a solution? That’s gotta be the worst game ever. So we just tell each other stuff and we never acknowledge if the other one was right, so how then do we know who won in the end?” Because, even though he still wasn’t sure he wanted to play, this was starting to get in his head. He wanted to win, if only just to show Bruce that even he, Clint Barton, Regular Guy, medium-sized-brain and all, could do something right.

“At the moment I am winning, I suppose. Liars never tell you when you are right. And if you're a good liar, you keep people guessing. But I promise you, I will build up on this round, give you more clues. Does that sound fair?” - “Considering you let me walk straight into that one without explaining the rules first, I doubt you can make this fair even if you pile on a freaking video tape that proves one of your stories.” Clint shook his head, but he was smiling ever so slightly. His ambition had been aroused and if there was one thing he didn’t know how to do, it was giving in to a stronger opponent, even though he knew he’d go home in a box. He just wasn’t cut out to give in so easily. Fighter’s blood, Barney had called it. If you got beaten, you got the hell back up. And again, and again, until you couldn’t move or the other guy looked just as bad as you or worse.

“Okay, my turn.” He hesitated beforehand, careful to think of what he’d want to say before he talked, to be able to say all three things with the same weight, the same emphasis and with straight eyes. “One. My favourite movie is _Pretty Woman_ and if you bitch to me about that I’ll kick your ass. Two. I once slept with a woman thrice my age and it was the best goddamn sex in my life. Three. I’m a sniper, but I’ve never actually followed a direct kill order.”  
Bruce just sat there, looked at him and seemed to be deep in thought. And then he smiled. “You said sniper. I saw you and Pepper once watching something with… I don’t know who. Some actress. It looked very… romantic. So _Pretty Woman_ seems not so farfetched. My uncle loves that other film with her and Gere by the way. A woman thrice your age… well. Don’t want to picture you and Mrs Robinson, but possible. And you said sniper. You didn’t say assassin or killer. And it’s the third option, like the one you think my lie. You don’t know this game, so copying would be a reasonable option.” He smiled, looking pretty confident and then pulled his lip between his teeth. 

“Interesting,” Clint imitated Banner’s comment from before, using the exact same intonation. “Especially your thoughts on my sex life. Not the least creepy, but hey.” It didn’t show on his face, but inwardly, he sighed relieved. So Tasha had been right, Banner hadn’t had access to their complete files or he had chosen not to read them. Meaning he thought Natasha Romanov was twenty-six years old. Like hell would Clint correct that mistake! “And you think I’d copy your results and put my lie on the same place as you. That’s… remarkable.” He kept his voice calm, unemotional, the expression on his face the mask of a poker player. And then he just waited for Bruce to continue. He could yet win this thing even though he didn’t quite get how exactly you were supposed to score or to know if you’d scored without getting a decent feedback.

“One. I was expelled from high-school. I had been mean. Two. My father drank too much. He used to hit me where no one would see till the day he died. Three. I put a gun to my mouth and pulled the trigger.”  
Clint hated this game. He hated, hated, hated it. He didn’t want to guess this time. He didn’t want to know which were true and which one was wrong because frankly, they were all depressing and horrible and they gave him thoughts, memories. Underneath his mask, his surface, the black pool was boiling. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold it together much longer and maybe some of that even showed in his eyes. He closed them shut, quickly, hiding whatever it was that broke free inside of him, trying to hide the bad memories and the guilt and the self-loathing. Then, finally, he decided that he didn’t want to explain his decision aloud. He didn’t have to, right? It was in the rules. He’d just choose one and not say any more. And he’d just tell three more stories, little things this time, no bad things, nothing so dark. He didn’t care if that was fair or not. Bruce had started cheating right at the beginning. It was hard to imagine little Brucey getting kicked out of high-school, for any reason. It was not at all, however, hard to imagine him being beaten up by his dad, especially if that guy had been an alcoholic. Clint had thought that there was some sort of connection between them, earlier, even at the party when Bruce didn’t drink anything and then when he got frustrated by Tony’s drinking and later, when he sat there and said that he was okay in that same tone that Clint used whenever he was hurting. He didn’t want that for Bruce but yeah, figured. The third one… that was hard. Was Bruce the kind of guy who’d kill himself? Maybe. He’d had it pretty rough. Maybe he even thought he’d killed his mum. Maybe it had been because of the whole Hulk-thing.  
“One,” Clint concluded his trail of thought, shortly. His voice was trembling ever so slightly. He didn’t want to play anymore. But he didn’t see how he could stop this now without giving more of himself away than he could possibly hide by rushing off. 

And so he started again although it felt _wrong_ and he _hated_ this and he was silently begging fate or God or Tasha or anyone to come in and intervene because he couldn’t stop, not without losing to Banner, but he also couldn’t take it anymore, he just couldn’t. “One. I grew up with the carnival. Two. I’m an only child. Three. I shot the person who brought me up. Go.” He was getting tired of this. This wasn’t any fun. It was nothing like fun, actually. He hated this so much.

“Two. You always seem like you shouldn’t be alone, like there should be someone watching your back. You’re bad at being alone. And you’re bad at lying.” Bruce sighed. He watched him. And then he – very silently – said: “One. You have a background with an alcoholic parent. You have been beaten. You never told anyone. Two. You're in love with Natasha and she is probably in love with you as much as she can be. You're not together. You don't think you deserve her, you don't think she could really like you more than a friend or deeper than someone to just sleep with. Because who would ever like you? Three. I am your shrink and I am sane and grounded and really the one guy you should choose to talk about this. Because everyone else is not someone you should trust. They're all out to get you and if you show one ounce of weakness they will kill you and eat you alive.” He stood up and looked around, like he was searching for something. He had his hands in his pockets and looked up to the ceiling. “My father killed my mother, but it was really my fault. Not much different to killing her myself. None, actually. It’s true and false. I was indeed expelled from high-school. My father is still alive.” He looked down again, tried to catch Clint’s gaze. “Talk with Natasha, Clint. You don’t have to talk with a shrink. I won’t either. But you’re not cut out to be alone and this self-loathing will eat you alive. And her. Let her comfort the one person she cares about. She deserves that much at least. And thank you for looking after me and watching Dr Who. Give me your cup, I’m cleaning up.”

Clint wasn’t even aware that his face had become a distorted mask of pain, stripped from all that guarded his inner psyche, everything he’d normally use to shield himself from the world. There was a slight tremble that was taking hold of him while Bruce was talking, unravelling all the secrets Clint had thought he’d kept safe over the years. But he knew nothing. So he _had_ read Clint’s file. Tasha had been wrong. That happened. It had happened in Budapest. She had been wrong back then, too. But Bruce was also wrong. This wasn’t about self-loathing. The scientist had no idea what he was talking about. When Hawkeye finally spoke, his voice was flat, trembling with fragility. “One. Shut the hell up. Two. Just because you read my file doesn’t mean you know anything about me, or Natasha, or my family. Three. Who I talk to or what I tell them is none of your damn business. You don’t know me, you don’t know _anything_ about me other than some pretty lousy SHIELD paperwork, half of which are lies, by the way, and some lucky guessing on your behalf. You tell anyone about any of this and I swear to you, you’ll get your death wish, and if I have to come up with a solution myself.”  
Briskly, he stood up, stepping back from the couch. He had always been a rebel, always been the one to make the strangest calls at the worst moments imaginable. He never did what he was supposed to do. Yes, he was hurt, deeply hurt, just like Bruce had probably planned it. But there was still a spark of rebellion inside of him. A little part of him that understood far more than most people thought he would. Clint was proud about how he never missed… but not even he knew how exceptionally true that was, how you could extend it on to his psychological skills.

“And since we’re playing double rounds now, I guess I still owe you one. And I hate owing people. Always makes for a mess in the future. So one: When you guess my family background, guess whose background you’re revealing. Damaged goods recognize each other, huh? You didn’t have any siblings, clearly, and because of that you think you’re better at being alone but really, you’re just worse at being with people. Two. You know nothing about Natasha, or about our partnership, you just see that we’re close and you think there’s something to fix because clearly we’re both too damaged and too _young_ to know what’s best for us and because you’re so desperate to fix everyone, to _heal_ everyone because you can’t heal yourself, you can’t fix what happened to you and you hate that. You’re wrong about Tasha and me in every possible way and you’re wrong to give yourself up, because no matter how hard you fought, if you’re honest you still have tons of reasons to get back up for a second round. You’re a damn coward for not trying harder. And three, finally. You’re right. You’re not my fucking shrink. Stop behaving like one. I can see what you’re doing, trying to push the people away who try to get close to you, being the strong lone wolf who doesn’t need anyone. Well you suck at it. You think no one sees your pain, how you wish to belong, so desperately. That’s because most people don’t look properly. But I’ve seen it. This loneliness, your oh-so-brave-tactics, they’ll break you, just like you’re breaking off every friendship, every relationship you might actually have. You even got the AI to resent you. Well, good luck with that, because JARVIS is actually pretty smart and after this, he might even start talking to you out of spite. And one fair warning: I’m really sucky at listening to reason and staying the hell away from people who might hurt me. Ask anyone.”

He didn’t give Bruce any chance to reply to any of that. He didn’t want to hear it. He was fed up for now and if Bruce said one more word, Clint might actually lose it and provoke a Green-out. So he left, rushed out of the laboratory knowing full well that Tasha was watching where he was going. He didn’t mind. He went up, all the way to the roof, using the fire escape staircase to blow off some steam. It was but when the cool summer wind was tugging at his hair and his sharp eyes could see all of Manhattan at his feet, that he felt the burning sensation on his face, the tremble in his ever so steady hands, and sagged down on the gravel, trying to gulp it all down, wash it all back down into that black pool that now felt like an infinite ocean, ready to swallow him whole.

 

When Clint was gone, Bruce looked up to the ceiling again. He felt raw and vulnerable and he just wanted to crawl somewhere and sleep. “You’re probably still there.” Bruce didn’t believe that Natasha would have let Clint come here without looking out for him. It wasn’t her way. And she was able to hack the cameras. “Go. And delete the feed, please.”  
After that he started to work, because really: How could he do anything else?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you they'd hit it right of, didn't we?


	8. 7: Bad Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Tony are having pair-therapy and Dr. Banner is a dick. Again. Huh. Isn't he the nice one normally?

  
** 7\. Bad Bone **

_There's a bad bone inside of me_   
_All my troubles started there_   
_And all the cracks are adding up to be_   
_A little more than you can bare_

_When I met you, you were bitter still_   
_From a scar you're never gonna show_   
_And I was cursed with a jealousy_   
_That's killed every love I've ever known_

_And when the anger that you feel_   
_Turns to poison in your soul_   
_And then the scars you only feel_   
_Will start to show_

 

SHIELD HQ, NYC | August 29 - September 4, 2013

 

**I**   


Dr Martin had a nice office. It showed taste. The couch was modern, but not cold, all the lines in the room were direct and honest, so to speak. There were some colours, but it didn't seem too comforting. It was a little bit like a waiting room at the dentist’s. That didn’t change the fact that Clint had been right: Dr Martin was young. Desperately so. Bruce just had to have one look at him to know that – had he owned a TV – he would have liked Highschool-Musical. _Oh dear..._ And Dr Martin was intelligent. That was really the worst part of it.

He had been the most intelligent person in his circle of acquaintances for his entire life and he somehow thought that that made him a grown-up. He really shouldn’t have gone into psychology. Bruce would have enjoyed having him as a lab assistant or even as a colleague, but the guy was a shrink. You couldn’t take shrinks, who knew nothing of life except for what they’d read in a book, seriously.  
He had been assigned five sessions with the guy and Bruce hadn’t thought that too bad. Five meetings. He had been through a lot more and he didn’t see a reason to rebel against Fury because of that. Bruce made a habit out of playing along, just as if Fury really was his boss and could tell him what to do, could _force_ him in some kind of way.

It smelled like vanilla in this room, which startled Bruce a little bit. Vanilla. Out of all the wrong choices the guy could have made…

The first meeting went alright, Bruce supposed. He got there five minutes early and he got an Oolong before they started. Bruce breathed in the aroma and took a careful sip. Well, Dr Martin knew how to brew a good cup of tea. Bruce would have come for that alone. He then smiled at Dr Martin. He wanted to be nice and sociable. Bruce didn’t go about it like Clint did. He didn’t use plotlines. He did the ‘not saying anything’-part by saying everything.

“So, Bruce… may I call you Bruce?”  
“Actually I would prefer Dr Banner. No offense, Dr Martin, but you are half my age. Or near enough. I feel a little bit strange as it is.” He smiled, crossing his legs and placing his hands on his lap. He was open and compliant. He was relaxed and he showed it in every possible way.  
“Dr Banner, then. Okay, I can work with that. Dr Banner, would you mind telling me something about yourself?”  
“What exactly?”  
“Well… anything really.”  
“Because I am the one who knows where to start?” He smiled, looked at the ceiling and hummed under his breath. “Well, alright. Do you mind whether I lie down? This is a very comfortable couch.”  
“No, no, not at all, suit yourself.”  
“Thank you, Dr Martin.” He sing-sang the name like a little child would, slipped out of shoes and socks and put his feet up on the couch. He lied down and closed his eyes, his hands on his belly, rising with his breath. “This is very relaxing. Well… tell something, anything. My name is Bruce Banner, I have three doctorates. I have been on the run for over ten years. It’s a little strange to stay at one place for so long. Kinda itchy. But I guess that is normal. You probably have a nice name for that. Gypsy-syndrome?”  
“Itchy feet.”  
“Nice one.” Bruce stayed silent then and thought, that he could maybe take a little nap. But Dr Martin wasn’t the knitting-lady. Shame, really. He would have liked a little nap.  
“Dr Banner?”  
“Yes, Doctor Martin?” - “You’re not talking.” - “I know. So I shall share another tidbit about me? I must say, this would go way faster if you told me just what you want to hear about.”  
“How was it growing up, being the smartest kid around?”

Bruce laughed and opened one eye, looking at Martin. “You would prefer for me to sit, wouldn’t you? To look like I took this more seriously?”  
“You can sit if you want. Please don’t avoid the question.”  
“I won’t. Sorry.” Bruce sighed and then started looking at Dr Martin. “Well. You are a wunderkind they say, so this is something you know about. You want to see if I tell you the truth. You probably think me a liar… well then. You know it has its perks. Some, actually. I never had to work very hard in school. I was never afraid I wouldn’t pass a test. If I wanted to, I could understand anything. There was this one time…” And then he talked. He talked and talked and talked. He told nice, sweet stories about him being smart. They had all happened and it made Bruce smile to talk about Jen and that one christmas or how he had fixed Aunt Elaine’s problem with the moles.  
“Dr Banner.... before we end this.... what do you think made you lash out like that?”

He looked a little perplex, watching the boy with a cocked head. He had already talked about this. He didn’t need more chats like the one he had had with Clint. That was why he had decided how to counter this particular question right before he came into this office. “I am not sure I know how to answer that.”  
“Well, you could -”  
“No.” He smiled again, sat up and leaned forward. “Dr Martin… I hadn’t had the most normal day at that point. I had just been declared a human being again, that… well I suppose you could say I had a little emotional crisis in my head. Tony can be obnoxious, even more so when he is drunk. I don’t think I was the only one who got edgy seeing that, and well... To be perfectly frank: I don’t think my reaction was that much out of line or surprising, really. I overreacted a little bit, but I can’t stay calm ALL the time. It is not humanly possible. So… excuse me, but I know I overreacted, I know I shouldn’t have done it but all the fuss here is solely made because me overreacting can lead to dangerous consequences. You realize that you can’t heal me from ever having an unstable emotional state, do you?”  
“Dr Banner… you were abnormally strong. You had green eyes.”  
“I get green eyes when I watch the news sometimes.” He shrugged and stood up. “I know it seems… unhealthy, but I live with a great lot of anger. That is ok. I have lived like that for over ten years now. I can assure you, that I won’t hulk-out because of something like that, even though I may not be perfectly calm at all times. As far as I know, that would classify me as a sociopath.” He put his socks and shoes on and then, before he forgot, he said: “And just so you can scratch out the ‘talks only about nice memories’ bit in your notes: It was difficult too, of course. Being the smartest kid around. The smartest human. People tend to get defensive and I got bullied quite a lot. I have been told that there are many smart kids or just… different kids who get bullied at school. I was a quiet child and smart and I liked sticking to myself. I was made to be bullied. I even sucked at sports. But you let me tell you what I wanted to tell and it is nicer to talk about the nice things.”

On his way out of the office, he put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and smiled down on him. “I think that went very well. You’re doing a decent job and you chose a good enough way to go about everything, taking in consideration how often I will be here. You didn’t show that you’re nervous and you try to make up for the age-gap. Do you want me to compliment you or…”  
“Actually....” - “Ah, I see. Alright then. I just want to help. See you tomorrow. I suppose we’ll be doing Rohrschach then? I _adore_ Rohrschach. Never show them to Tony though... It ceases to be funny after a while.”

They had some more talks. They talked about Bruce’s parents and Bruce just shrugged that away, because really: There wasn't much to say “They are dead. My mom died when I was seven, my father when I was ten. It was long time ago and I went to see psychiatrists about that at the time. It is sad, I won’t say it wasn’t or isn’t, but it is not really that much of an issue. I am ok with it, really.” Funny how he could say that and mean it. Bruce had looked at one SHIELD-file, one alone and that had been the one about himself. In there, it said that his parents were dead. Mother died because of an accident when he was seven, his father died of liver failure three years later. Bruce didn’t know how they had gotten these lies. They had so much about him up from the moment he had joined the program, after the accident… they had sometimes known where he would be before he himself had known it. He had been quite impressed but they must have gotten some tinkered file about his childhood and not crosschecked it. But in their defense, who had wanted to know about him before he had become the Hulk?

 

 

When Bruce came for his last meeting with the good Doktor, Tony sat on the couch, deeply concentrated at his Stark-Pad.

Bruce stood in the doorway, cocked his head and looked at Dr Martin. “Cheeky,” he finally said and smiled again. “Confrontational. I am nearly impressed, Dr Martin. A high risk game.”  
“Pair therapy is always high risk.” Tony grinned at him. “Doc thinks we should talk about our feelings, Brucey-Kins. Save the marriage. For the kids.”  
“Butterfinger would be devastated if you were to throw me out.” Bruce smiled. Tony hadn’t thrown him out. He had come to him one night and had given him a piece of cake with grilled grasshoppers on it. He had dared him to eat it and Bruce had done so with relish. He quite enjoyed grasshoppers. _“So?”_ , Tony had asked. _“What do you think?“ - “I think it lacks cinnamon.” - “Cinnamon?” - “You can’t have a decent grasshopper-tart without cinnamon, dear Anthony. Believe me.”_ And after that JARVIS had started talking with him again and they had been good.

That was one of the many nice things about Tony: He hadn’t wanted to speak about it. He forgave, he let you know and then it had been exactly like before.  
“What do you think is wrong with our marriage?” Bruce sat down on the couch, ignoring Dr Martin for the moment. “What should we be working on?”  
“Well, Brucey-kins, I must say you aren’t enough for me. Sexually speaking.”  
“We don’t have sex.”  
“I know. That may be the problem. I have to get that elsewhere.”  
“You’re cheating on me with Pepper?”  
“Very much so, yes. Sometimes multiple times in a row.”  
“Did you take her to our secret science-hideout?”  
“Well, I would NEVER!”  
“Then we’re good: I get you for sciency-stuff and Pepper can have the sex. I don’t mind that.”  
“Perfect!” Tony grinned and put his hand up, so they could fist-bump. “Doc, you were very helpful, our marriage is safe and sound. And sexless.”  
“Not for you.”  
“No, but we should work on that for you too, can't be healthy. You could get bitchy and green.”  
“You think I'll… change because of sexual frustration?”  
“I think Doc Martin is going to explode if I try to give you tips about that.”  
“Good call.” Bruce chuckled, leaning back and taking a look at the shrink. He did look a little bit green around the nose. “I am sorry. This is probably mean, but you asked for it, bringing him here. By the way, how did you ma-...ah. Pepper thinks we should talk about the thing?”  
Tony rolled his eyes and pulled a face. That was a yes then.

Dr Martin hadn’t been taking any notes. He was still looking a little bit nauseated but also... well. Determined. He looked like a man with a plan. Oh well. Bruce braced himself. This was their last meeting. After that, he would… well. Not be free. But he would be cleared of all charges once again. Perhaps the good shrink would give him a little piece of paper that told him that he was indeed sane enough to be around other people. “Dr Banner… you told me you hit Mr Stark because it had been a harsh day.”  
“And because he didn't behave himself.” Bruce smiled ruefully. “It’s no good reason and I am sorry.”  
“Nah. I’ve done worse,” Tony grinned at him and waved a hand. “Forget it. It was actually kinda cool. Your eyes looked like they were radioactive!”  
“They are, Tony.”  
“Right. That must have been it.”

“Dr Banner, Mr Stark… I beg your pardon but I want to try something.” Martin stood up and pulled a coin out of his pocket. Bruce felt a small amount of interest. Well. Hypnosis. He hadn’t tried that in like… five years, give or take. It was just some other kind of meditation and it never really worked out for him. He couldn’t let go that easily.  
Beside him Tony snickered. “Really? Doc, I must ask: Where is you aromatherapy-stuff and the voodoo-doll?”  
“Hypnosis works, Tony. For the right people.”  
“You mean stupid peasants, right?”  
“Not a matter of intelligence. Temperament.” Bruce looked up and Martin in the eyes. “It won’t work, son. I am sorry, but it won’t. And I have to remind you, that I am not here because I hide something or because I am repressing or forgetting something. I remember my whole life quite accurately.”  
“I want to try nevertheless, Dr Banner. And I would prefer it if you didn’t call me ‘son’:”  
“Ah, yes. Sorry about that, it slipped.” He tried a nice, compliant smile again. Poor boy. This really wasn't something he should have to deal with. Bruce leaned forward, looked at the coin and started to relax. Maybe he would start to sleep a dreamless slumber. That would be a nice end for these tea parties.

**II ******

Tony didn’t really know what he was doing here. He had thought that it may help Bruce and he had enjoyed the idea of talking with a shrink. He liked people listening to him and with Bruce there they might get to new heights of awesomeness.

But now Bruce seemed somehow out. The coin got him. Damn, that was a neat trick they should NEVER show Ross.   
“Doc… I feel like I should get you to make that a handy device for the people. For ALL people. You know how many of my biggest bombs have been thrown at that guy? NOTHING could get him out cold like that and now you did the trick with a freaking sixth-pence.”  
“It wasn’t a sixth-pence, Tony.” Bruce groaned and looked up again. He was smiling but it didn’t reach his eyes. Poor guy must have been exhausted. “Sorry, Doc. Have been trying playing along but no good will not come out of this.”

The boy didn’t say anything in the beginning, was just watching him very carefully.   
Tony nudged Bruce’s side with a pen. “You’re not going to get blue now or something?”  
“Blue?” Bruce’s eyebrow shot up and vanished under that ridiculous hair of his. The guy looked like a cocker spaniel, seriously. No aim to be presentable what-so-ever. Shame, really, Tony BET he could make Bruce a lady-killer. The guy had potential with these big brown eyes, the wry smile and the I-am-too-chilled-to-care-if-you-drag-me-to-shopping-attire. He just seemed to have forgotten that there were COMBS in the civilised world and that this wasn’t India and no one wore a bright yellow unless being chased by a cat named sylvester.   
“Brucey-kins, d’you’ve got time? I’ll introduce you to my sewer and a lady with very nice hands and a mean pair of scissors. We’ll make you presentable and then we’ll party, celebrate your end of the shrink-time!”  
“Naturally I have time for you, Tony,” Bruce smiled at him and then stood up, stretching his arms. “You pay me well enough for it.”  
Something inside of Tony clenched. He didn’t really know why it happened, just that that sounded… well. Overly offhanded. He slapped Bruce’s butt, just to see the red on Martin’s face and crossed his legs, all nonchalance. “Nah, I pay you for inventing amazing, science-boner worthy stuff, not for spending time with my amazing self and getting a little bit groomed. Or a lot groomed. We should get a camera-team and make this a ‘Before-and-after’-special. ‘Hulk-out - let your inner sense of style go rampage!’”  
“Is that so?” Bruce looked… well amused for lack of a better word. He had this faint way of being amused like he were 900 years old and smiling over the follies of his grandchildren. There had to be Bruce-Banner-teddy-bears, Tony would totally make that a thing. “So we’re denying that… well it’s good to know. When shall I be ready and at your service?”  
“You should always be at my service, Brucey-kins.”  
“Not unless you buy some roombas to clean this room up, after you have destroyed the boy.”  
“I could make this room self-cleaning. But about the time - be ready in half an hour?”  
“Of course. Always ready and at your command.”  
“Splendid. Oh and Bruce?”  
“Yes?”

“I am not paying you because you’re my friend, but because you _earn_ that kind of money. You’re worth it as a professional, as a scientist and an asset of Stark Industries’. Got it?” It was just so like Bruce to still make himself small. They would have to have another party. Like… they could get aaaaaaaall the stuff and prizes he must have won and make kind of a Bruce-Banner-Exhibition. They could do it downstairs, in the lobby. It would be awesome!

Bruce smiled again, cocked his head and bit on his lip for a short moment. “Tony… you do realise that that isn’t true, right?”  
Tony sighed. Right. THAT bullshit again, he would just have to-

“You ARE paying people to be friends with you. It’s what you do. Well, I’m actually quite relieved that the job-description seems to be friend and not pet. In the beginning I was waiting for you to get me a collar. Green perhabs. I’m sure it would have been classy, with lace and everything.”  
“I do have awesome taste in collars.”  
“I have no doubt.”  
“But why would I give you one? No offence, Brucey-Kins, but I really don’t pay my friends. It’s nothing I do.”

The scientist looked at him and then chuckled. It was this warm, pretty affectionate chuckle that he sometimes had and that sounded like tea and milk and cookies and like he thought that Tony was an adorable toddler. Which had been - quite frankly - a little bit offsetting but it also sounded so _genuine_ and like Bruce really liked the moment and wanted to be here and not somewhere dead in the desert. 

“Well… alright, so we’re doing this. Tony, nothing against your life-choices but tell me of one friend you’re not buying somehow.”

“Rhodey.” He didn’t even have to think about it and he started to wonder what this ridiculousness -  
“Rhodey.” Bruce tipped his upper-lip with his tongue. He sat on the end of the couch, legs and arms crossed. “That would be _the_ Rhodey with the IronMan-Suit? Who - before that - was the only person in the Air Force to really have a grip on you? Nah, I really can’t imagine how that might have been advantageous for him. And besides him - who is there? Me. I just learnt you’re paying me but before that there was an apartment. A lab. Food and clothes. And you were pretty much everything standing between me and Ross. Thanks for that by the way.”

“You’re welcome, buddy…” What the HELL was going on? He stared at Banner and tried to find something… well, amiss. But there wasn’t anything. He spoke in that sweet voice he used to explain things to people or to sooth them Tony had learnt that Natasha HATED that voice because of some shit when she had brought Bruce in, some mean joke. (Yes, his Brucey-kins had been a joker BEFORE he had met him! Pepper wasn’t right, when she said he would corrupt him, he was just naturally nearly as awesome as Tony himself.) He was Bruce Banner, alright but the stuff he said… in that _condescending_ voice, like it was obvious, like Tony was a petulant child who didn’t want to see… it was like their bantering about his ridiculous notion that Tony should try some of his freaking tea because it was better for the heart than coffee. That tone made it _real_ and… well… _cruel._ It freaked Tony out, because Bruce was a lot of things but never, NEVER cruel. He was a teddy bear. But his eyes were their normal brown - no funny Loki-stuff there. 

“Tony, I really like you and you know that. But the only person you aren’t buying is Pepper and you gave her strawberry-chocolate last week. I don’t know how often you can forget that she is allergic, but it just isn’t cute anymore. She loves you and you love her and in a few months you will hurt her. We are all just waiting for it, really. You will do something deeply obnoxious, probably waking up after a drunken shenanigan, naked except for your helmet, in a pile of gorgeous young women. And Pepper will laugh it off and you will buy her a teddy-bear a house high and be Tony Stark in all your obnoxious glory and that will repeat itself. Again and again until it’s you who has no need for Pepper any more and discard of her. Tony, I really don’t mean to… sound hostile. I like you. I freaking love you and you know that, but you are a difficult man to be around and sometimes I want to strangle you and you and I have quite clearly the same opinion: It is hard work to be with you and to… let you be your obnoxious self. It is probably a good thing that you buy people, just… well. Don’t talk yourself into thinking that it’s something different. It’s no worthy behaviour of you.” Bruce chuckled again and put a hand at his throat. “I haven’t been talking this much in a while… but it was good. Nice that it’s all in the open now, good call, Tony. You don’t look so well… I say we should postpone this whole ‘grooming’ business. I actually have an experiment I have to tend to. Have a nice day. Lay down. Sleep.”

“Yes, _Dr Banner_. Oh I forgot - you’re not _that_ kind of doctor, aren’t you?”  
“Actually - yes, I AM that kind of doctor.” Bruce smiled and chuckled, then he cocked his head and looked at Tony, looking faintly worried. “We are good, aren’t we? You’re not going to have a gigantic sulk?”  
“Nah. Me? Sulking? Please, Banner, you know me better than that!”  
“Yes, yes I do.”

Bruce nodded, smiled and Tony wanted to punch him in the face for a moment. What had happened with his cuddly, cute, cocker-spaniel-science-buddy?  
 _I’ve made a Stark out of him… Winter is coming._ Well...that was a fucking good roundup. Banner seemed freaking _cold_. Banner shouldn’t be cold, that was HIS job. And Banner shouldn’t sound like…. like fucking cuddling while doing it. That voice made it into some kind of ‘it’s not you, it’s me’-thing and Tony didn’t like feeling like the blushing bride, left at the altar.

Banner smiled at him, unfolded and put his hands in his pockets. He was whistling, while he walked to the door, all calm nonchalance. His stupid hair curled around his ears and was wobbling up and down.   
“Dr Banner…” Martin had the NERVE to speak up to make clear that he had been here all the time, that he had HEARD. Uh, Tony would kill his facebook-account. Or he would MAKE the guy a facebook-account, hook him up and then TAKE IT AWAY FROM HIM! “Dr Banner, we should make another appointment, I really think-” - “Oh my sweet boy.” Banner chuckled again and ruffled Martin’s hair. And well. That was kinda mean. Even for Tony Stark’s apprentice. Banner still had a lock of Martin’s hair between his fingers. He grinned then. “If I wanted to talk with someone and get analyzed, I would have a DVD-night with Barton.”

“BIRDIE-BRAIN?”

“Don’t call him that.” Bruce frowned at Tony He actually frowned. _He really is the fucking daddy who is being told that his kids don’t get along…_ And then Bruce smiled and he did it _fondly_. When had Bruce and Birdie-Brain become all cuddly? WHEN? How had he missed that? How had JARVIS missed that? What were all the cameras for? “Clint is a bright one. I mean really bright. And… attentive. I wanna add ‘breakable’ but that would be mean.”  
“Bruce...are you cheating on me?”  
“Wouldn’t want to lose my bed, Stark.” Bruce smiled and he said the words with a glint in his eyes, but they sounded _true_ and then he just shrugged and swaggered out of the room. 

Tony sat there, minding his own business and bloody _thinking_ what the hell might have just happened. That wasn’t normal, that wasn’t what should have happened. Something… something had to be done about that. Brucey-kins was… Bruce was… well… he probably…. did he do that? Buying people? Nah. Naaaaaah…. he was awesome. He didn’t need to… well… Rhodey probably didn’t… and Pepper… he would NEVER… well… he had gotten quite drunk, but…

“Anthony...may I call you Anthony?”  
Tony looked up and cracked a smile. “You may if I get a pity-fuck.”  
He could SEE Martin dying.   
That nearly made him ok again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THINK ABOUT THE CHILDREN! 
> 
> Also, on an other note: Thank you for the kudos and the bookmarks. :) We are celebrating each one.


	9. 8. Give Me A Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's got a little bit of everything: Shrink-mobbing, mild violence against co-workers both physically and verbally, JARVIS, fluff, angst, memories and pranks. It's a giant mash-up of good and bad times, trust and betrayal and snooping in personnel files. And at no point does it get creepy or anything because... well. That would just be mean, wouldn't it?

  
**8\. Give me a reason**

_I let you see the parts of me_  
 _That weren't all that pretty._

_Just give me a reason_  
 _Just a little bit's enough_  
 _Just a second we're not broken just bent_  
 _And we can learn to love again_

_It's in the stars_  
 _It's been written in the scars on our hearts_  
 _We're not broken just bent_  
 _And we can learn to love again_

 

**I**

SHIELD HQ and Stark Tower, NYC | September 5, 2013

“So, Agent Barton, tell me…” _Click-click-clickediclick._ Clint tried his best to stay calm but the constant clicking of his shrink’s pen almost drove him to the edge of what he could bear. “… what do you think of the Hulk?”

Clint lifted his brows, mainly because looking unimpressed and can’t-be-bothered would buy him some time and he desperately needed some time before he could answer to that. He hadn’t expected Bruce to come up in any of their sessions. This, here, this was about him. It was about Loki. Yet Dr Martin hadn’t asked him a single question about the God of Mischief, instead, they’d been discussing Clint’s childhood (or the pretend-childhood he had constructed out of a few movies), his friends (which he had invented as well, seeing as he had only few friends left within SHIELD and had no intention of Dr Martin molesting his next-door-neighbours) and as of now they seemed to take the leap to his colleagues (which was going to be tricky for two reasons. One: Banner had warned Clint about stealing his lies from movie plots, proving to him that even lies told far more of the human psyche than the liar wanted to give up. Two: when faking your thoughts on people the shrink actually _knew_ , you had to be creative enough to seem normal and yet uncreative enough to prevent yourself from sticking out). Clint had never been what was commonly referred to as a people-person. He knew a lot of people. He was good at names and at faces, but most of the time, he was careful to not let anyone get too close. On the other hand, however, Banner was right, too. He sucked at being alone. He was really, really bad at it. Starting the first day of his life, there had always been someone to look out for Clint. At first his mum and Barney, then later it was just Barney until Clint found himself some new father-figures, none of them a good choice as he realized later on. Swordsman had been a brutal criminal who beat Clint almost to death when Clint found out he was lifting money out of the carnival’s register and had threatened to expose him to the police. Trick Shot had been even worse, using Clint’s grief over the loss of his brother to lead him on into a life of crime. Clint hadn’t realized what was happening until it was too late, not until he had earned the first article on his ledger. When he had decided to break free from Trick Shot, the other archer had almost killed Clint in a fight to the death. It was a miracle he hadn’t died, waking up hours after the fight in a pool of his own blood and guts, dragging himself out somehow and finding a kind soul to patch him up.

He always but realized these things about people when it was already too late, when he had already been burnt and broken; especially when it came to the people he picked as a father figure or a role model. Once, Barney had picked up the pieces. The second time, Barney hadn’t been there, not anymore and never again since that day. After that, Clint had fallen into some pretty bad circles, made some awful choices. And then there had been Coulson, catching him, giving him a new direction and making sure that even a screw-up like Clint got his fair chance within SHIELD.

Barney had been there from the very beginning, his brother in blood. You couldn’t just choose people like that; it was pure chance that Clint had had Barney to watch his back and Bruce was right: He had grown used to his elder brother looking out for him, being his conscience. Clint had always been the younger one, the one who got protected instead of the protector, even if at some point he’d started to stand up for Barney, too. Barney had always been the leader and Clint hand been the follower, the little rebel who questioned Barney’s decisions just as much as he depended on his brother. Coulson, on the other hand, had chosen Clint and stuck with him, not the other way round. Clint had almost messed that up right from the start, because he would never have imagined that Coulson could be good for him. But he had been wrong. Coulson had been his saviour, his third father figure ( _after all, three’s the charm, eh, Barton?_ ), the guy who saved his life in more than one respect and in hindsight would continue to do so for years to come. They had been good together.

And then there was Natasha. She was the first of his comrades after Swordsman and Trick Shot whom Clint had actually chosen himself. Well, at least he had been part of that decision, in a way. Alright, she had chosen him, but not before he had chosen to let her live… so at least some of the credit was his, right? And in the beginning, she had been just as bad a judgement call as Trick Shot or Swordsman. Any other spy would have killed Clint, right then and there. Last mistake for someone who made far too many of them. Maybe it had been destiny, the two of them finding each other. The one sniper too stupid and too stubborn to fulfil his mission and the one target who wasn’t out to kill him, but showed him mercy in exchange for his decision. An enemy turned a friend, a partner, a lover – and then just a partner again, but a good partner, the kind of partner who’d lose a hand for you without so much as a groan. Tasha had been there at his side for four years. Granted, she’d left him a few times, rushing off to God knew where, God knew why. Barton didn’t judge her. She was Tasha. She was a carny at heart, even if she’d never lived with the carnival. There was gypsy blood inside of her. She couldn’t stand following orders all the time, she needed to be able to breathe, make her own choices. If running away every now and then was what kept her sane, he let her. He never lost sight of her and if she ran too far, he’d be there, waiting for her. Bringing her back home, to SHIELD. She was the most important person there. Anywhere, really.

He had lost Coulson a few months ago. Simultaneously to the loss of his favourite ‘father’, however, Fury had seen fit to assign him a whole bunch of ‘brothers’, four of them. Clint didn’t like any of them. He didn’t trust Cap’s good judgement, and frankly, the guy was too good to be true and too naïve to be assigned the leader of a paintball-team of six-year-olds, much more so of an elite team of superheroes. He didn’t like Thor’s tactics because well, there were no tactics, Thor just rushed in everywhere and swung his hammer like a two-year-old. A very, very strong and potentially much too unbalanced two-year-old. Stark was Stark, there wasn’t much to say to that one – Clint seriously wondered how on earth other people fit into the same room with Stark AND his ego.

And Bruce… well. Bruce. Bruce was actually kind of nice except for the fact that he had screwed Clint over so badly the other night that it still hurt. His words had stayed with the archer, even if Hawkeye had tried to ignore them, to just push them away and call them silly. He _still_ couldn’t hate Banner, although he’d tried. Hell, had he tried. Yes, Banner had screwed him over (but in Clint’s job, most people would do that to you at some point), but it must have been some sort of self-protection, Clint had decided after two nights with too much boxing despite his weakened shoulder and too little (meaning no) sleep. Banner was trying to push everyone away who could get too close because Banner was _scared_ , just as scared as Clint. That didn’t make them friends, however. Just as an assignment Fury had thought to be necessary didn’t make them a team and didn’t make them family. They most certainly neither of those.

And now, suddenly, Clint’s shrink saw fit to drag out his worst Avengers-moment so far including every single injury he’d gotten in the line of service alongside these freaks. What did he think of the Hulk?

“He’s big. He’s green. Abnormally so.” Dr Martin clicked his pen, frowned that little frown that he always had at the beginning of their sessions as soon as Barton had opened his mouth. Gosh, did he hate that frown! That smug I’ll-figure-you-out-any-of-these-days-now-and-you-can’t-do-anything-about-it-frown. He wanted to take that frown and the adjoining head and smash it through a window.  
“What do you mean by that last part, Agent Barton?” Clint had insisted Martin call him ‘Agent Barton’. He wouldn’t be ‘Clint’ for someone whose job it was to get inside his head. He’d also not call a kid Dr Martin and be referred to by his first name in return. He was an adult and crap, he’d earned some respect and some personal space. Other than that boy. Probably pissed grass, that’s how green he was.

“What do you think I mean, Dr Martin?” – “I think you’re doing it again, Agent Barton. What we discussed. You’re using rhetorical questions to avoid mine. Don’t.” – “Why? Is that bad?” – “We’re not having that discussion again. Not today. We spent half of last session on that one.” – “Oh, that’s what we did? Thanks for the summary, Doc. I’d actually dozed off, but I obviously didn’t miss anything important. That’s a relief.” – “If you’re considering to behave like a five-year old again, don’t. It’s not half as charming as you think.” – “It’s insanely hot when you get at me all bad cop, you know that, right?” Clint lifted his eyebrows, deeply amused. One of these days, Martin would just give up. Eventually, they all did. And that was good, because Clint knew that Martin couldn’t help him. That problem he was having… it was _his_ problem. Therapy wasn’t an option because therapy was there to fix stuff. And he wasn’t actually broken.

“I mean that he’s both abnormally big. And abnormally green. Compared to other people.” – “That can’t be all your thoughts on him.”

Clint lifted his eyebrows. “Well, I hadn’t thought much further than that. But if you want to I’ll try… okay. He’s strong. Abnormally so. He’s angry like… a lot. And he’s dangerous. Can’t see though why you’d ask me about that because seriously… that’s common knowledge.” Martin had started to scribble stuff on his notepad again. When he wasn’t clicking his damn pen, he was always scribbling away as if he was paid to compose some sort of novel. “Dangerous, huh? Interesting.” He had that look again. That damn ‘I read all your thoughts and see right into your soul’-kind of a look. Fucking shrink.

“How the hell is THAT interesting?” – “He is supposed to be your teammate, is he not? Yet the adjectives you associate with him are strong, green, angry and dangerous. Would you say you two are friends?” Clint laughed out loud. “Friends? With the rage monster? Yeah, right. We spend our evenings watching porn and then we do some spooning on the couch. Big, green couch because that’s his colour. And when I get bored with him, I go visit Abomination in prison. Seems like the nice thing to do, ya know, give Blonsky a hug too from time to time.” There it was again. _Clickediclick_. And then scribbling away.

“So what’cha writing now, Doc? ‘Has trust issues’ because I make fun about being friends with monsters?” – “Never mind what I’m writing, Agent Barton. I just think it’s remarkable that the first thing you think about when confronted with Bruce Banner is the Hulk and the only things you have to say about him are, let’s just say, superficial.”

Clint gulped and immediately raised his voice, getting defensive. “Hey, whoa, no. That’s not fair. You asked about the Hulk. Not about Bruce.” – “And you just got agitated because I took two sides of the same person and assumed they were connected.”

Clint leaned back on the couch, arms crossed. Silent. He hated this so much… all of it. “You said _Hulk_ ,” he finally repeated, stubborn like a child, “and I answered on that. I haven’t exactly spend a lot of time with the Big Guy. Not sorry ‘bout it, though. He doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you’d want to get close to and don’t tell me that it’s not normal to be cautious about something you can’t control or kill or talk to, that will rip you apart if you piss it off or just stand in its way.” – “No, especially for an agent such as you, caution is definitely a normal reaction. Alright. You want to treat them separately, let’s do that. We’ve covered the Hulk, what about Bruce Banner?” – “Gosh, Doc. I don’t know, what about him?”

Barton considered just standing up and leaving. He didn’t want to talk any more. Bruce had taken movie-plots away from him and ever since then, his mandatory psych sessions were getting more and more tedious. Martin asked far too many questions. Clint avoided answers as well as he could but he started to realize that even avoidance and counter questions told Martin more than he wanted to reveal. It was like a vicious circle: Question – avoiding the answer – avoids the answer, obviously hiding something – trying to convince of the opposite, thus revealing more than he’d like to – next question. Like a dance that was no fun at all. And he was obliged to answer because Martin had told him if he didn’t talk to him at all, he’d go to Fury and have Clint blocked from active duty. Right now, the only reason he was allowing Clint to go on assignments was because he thought that Clint was one of those people who healed while working.

“Well, you’ve certainly seen more of Bruce Banner than you’ve seen of the Hulk, haven’t you?” – “Yeah, we’ve run into each other once or twice.” _Thirty-two times, actually._  
“So, what do you think of him?” – “I don’t know, man. Why do I have to have an opinion on everybody? Isn’t that your job?” – “I don’t get paid to have opinions, Agent Barton. Well, no, actually I do, but that’s not the point. I get paid to see how well you’re re-adapting to your everyday life after the trauma you have been exposed to.” – “Right. Adapting. And this is about Bruce because…” – “He’s one of your new teammates and I’ve been told you’ve spend some extracurricular time with him. There was some sort of a party…” – “Yeah, well. I talked to Thor most of the time. And Steve. Didn’t really stick around Banner that much. Besides, you’re his shrink too, right? I’m starting to think you can’t get a read on him and now you’re hoping I’ll help do your job.”

Martin looked annoyed. _Good. Took him long enough._ “This isn’t about analysing Dr Banner, Agent Barton. This is about analysing you.” Clint rolled his eyes. “You’re not going to let me leave without this, are you?” – “No. I’m even prepared to cancel all my other appointments until we’re finished with this session.”

God, that kid was a pain in the ass. Probably didn’t have any siblings. If he’d had siblings, he wouldn’t have made it to his teens. “Okay. Banner. He’s smart. Crazy smart. He’s far better at your job than you are, Doc, by the way. Reads people. Nice enough guy. He likes chocolate. I think. I mean I’ve seen him eat chocolate chips. That means he likes chocolate, doesn’t it? Have you ever met someone who eats chocolate chips and hates chocolate, because I sure as hell haven’t.” Clint shrugged and cursed only moments later. “Oh fuck. I keep forgetting that thing.”

“So I take it you’re still not taking any pain medication?” – “Banner’s also… a bit tense. I mean, anxious around people. Guess that’s normal enough for a nerd. Nothing to worry about.” Martin lifted his eyebrows again as Clint skipped the medication-question, and stayed on the subject of Bruce Banner instead.

“So how do you interpret what happened at the party?” – “What do you mean? His dance with Natasha? Well, there was music. She was tapping her toes. He was being a gentleman. Maybe they’ll marry, what do you think? Because no one in their right mind would dance with the Widow unless they’re planning on making it permanent, huh?” – “I was thinking more along the lines why he attacked Tony Stark, but it’s interesting that you think about him and Natasha.”

Clint chuckled. “Is it? Tasha and I are pretty good friends. Ask anyone. And the fact that Banner’s a decent dancer was the talk of that party. Ask Stark. Even he didn’t see that coming and he and Banner are pretty much adjoined by the hip. As for the ‘attack’ – you really shouldn’t believe everything Fury tells you. I mean, yeah, there was a scene. No big deal, though. Stark can be annoying. Well, actually, he makes a habit of always being annoying. And he was silly drunk, wouldn’t listen to reason or to Pepper and so Banner lost it. Hey, we all almost lost it.” – “So, would you consider Banner to be your friend?”

Clint rolled his eyes. “I rarely know the guy. He’s a colleague. He’s nice enough. Yeah, sure. We’re buddies. Or something. Write down, ‘Barton considers Banner his best friend in the world and he’s planning to propose to him soon.’ Whom do you want to discuss next? Stark, since we’re at it? Or Thor? Or Steve?”

“I don’t think we’re quite done with Dr Banner yet. Tell me about those movie nights you guys have been having.” It hit Clint right in the face, that realization that Bruce had been _talking_ to Martin. He’d told him everything he’d found out. He’d told him despite Clint had asked, well strictly speaking, ordered him not to tell anyone. “Why?” – “So you’re not denying there have been movie nights? Good.”

Clint pushed himself up from the couch. “We’re done.” – “Agent Barton, sit back down, please. We’re done when I say so.” There was that tone again. That ‘I’m smarter than you and now stop being a child and do as you’re told’-tone.

Clint’s eyes turned to a dark, stormy grey. “Nah, we’re done. We’re all done. I’m firing you.”

Martin smiled. “You can’t do that, technically speaking. If I don’t give you a positive eval…” – “SHIELD’s not going to let me work for them. Yeah. I know. So do it. Give me a negative eval. Do your worst. We’re done.”

Martin said something more, stood up, but Clint was already storming out, bashing the door shut behind him, rushing off to the men’s room. His face was burning with rage; white, hot rage that burned deep inside of him, shaking him from inside out. Rage so strong he couldn’t wash it off, not even with icy cold water thrown into his face again and again and again. He wanted to kill Martin. He was seriously considering going back and doing it right now. He wanted to kill Bruce, too, except for the fact that there was no way to do that that he knew of. So, Martin. Clint starred in the mirror, breathing as deep and hard as his bruised ribs would allow him. Slowly, the anger faded away. Was that how Bruce was feeling all of the time? Because it sucked. He wanted to smash his fist into the damn mirror or make something explode. He didn’t worry about being fired by SHIELD. They’d likely just push another shrink at him. That was what they always did. Well, usually the shrinks requested he get another doctor, but this was okay. So what. He’d done it himself this one time. Apart from that, even if he got a suspension right now, it wouldn’t change anything. It wasn’t as if he got to work anyhow, with the Ross-situation and everything going on, he was officially benched. And unofficially? The investigation with Natasha? He’d continue that one as a freelancer, if he had to. Screw Martin. Screw SHIELD. Screw Fury.

Now that he was calming down, slowly, he realized that something was wrong about all of this. Why would Martin bring up Banner in one of their sessions? Why would he try to get Barton to go off like that if Banner had really told him everything there was to know about Clint? No, there was something else going on. He remembered his own joke from earlier: Maybe Bruce hadn’t give Martin anything to work with and now Martin was grasping at straws, desperate to play them against each other… Banner _had_ seemed pretty self-assured about how to lie to a shrink..

Well, whatever Martin’s and Banner’s plays were, he wouldn’t sit idly by and wait for them to screw him over. Clint hated secrets and as of today, he’d had enough of them. Time to find the one kind of secrets he loved: The ones he got to know.

 

Hacking into the SHIELD main frame wasn’t that hard if you had an access code, a password and were on speaking terms with Natasha Romanov. “Tell me again, why are we doing this?” She was typing away, hastily, her fingers leaving a hammering rhythm in his ears.

“His birthday might be coming up, but I forgot the date and wanted to make sure I surprise him on the appropriate day.” – “Riiiiight. You need access to Banner’s classified personnel file because you don’t know when he’s born. You’d better have a more convincing story to tell Fury in case we get caught. You realize that, don’t you?” He could hear in her voice that she was slightly tense. Not because of the risk, she lived for the risk and she didn’t mind taking it, she just hated going behind Banner’s back without knowing what for. “Okay, listen, Tash, it’s nothing… dangerous. It’s just that he pranked me the other night and I’d like to repay him. You know. I just need to find a little weakness or something. I won’t hurt him, just…” – “Whatever, Barton. I’m not blonde, you know, like certain other people I know. I get it, I get what you’re doing. Just… don’t… I’m working hard to establish some sort of trust with the others because that’s the only way we’ll work as a team. So if you have to screw that over by prying in Banner’s dirty underwear, be my guest. Just think about what you’re hiding in _your_ sock drawer before you’re using any of the stuff you find or before you’re judging him, because if this gets out of hand, I bet it’ll be more ugly for you than it might be for him.” – “Tasha, it’s just…”

She double-clicked the mouse. “There you go. Unsealed. Enjoy.”  
She was pissed. He could tell. She hated when he was lying to her. “Okay, Tash, wait. It’s about Ross. I just need to know how he… how his brain works. I need to know what happened between him and Banner. Seeing that I’m suddenly in the middle of it.”

She smiled, stood up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I know, Barton, you idiot. I’m the clever one, remember? I just don’t like you trying to keep me in the dark as if you’d actually have a shot at that. Because we both know you don’t.” – “Yeah. Sorry, I guess.” – “I’m working the same case as you, you know that, right? I have your damn back, Hawkeye. But I need you to trust me. I need you to talk to me if we’re gonna make this work.”

He nodded. She was right. Tasha was always right. “Sorry.” – “No apologies. Sign of weakness. Now get to work. I’ve gotta run. Call me if you find something useful.” – “I will.”

But she was already out, feet as silent as those of a cat.

Barton downloaded the file, cut the connection to the main frame and started to read. The first page was the usual, date and place of birth, relatives. Apparently, Bruce was an orphan, just like Clint. That was no news. Clint remembered reading something about it in the not-so-classified, short version of Banner’s file and he also remembered Bruce telling him just that when they were having chocolate-chips and watching Dr Who and torturing each other with lies they knew were partially true. “Okay, Bruce, what’s your dirty laundry,” Clint murmured, his eyes flickering over the first page. He noticed immediately how little he had known about the doctor beforehand. “Your first name is Robert. Robert Bruce Banner. You’re thirty-six years old, nine years older than me.” While he was murmuring these facts, Clint got the small, vertical crease just above the bridge of his nose that always told if he was confused or concentrating really hard. “Three doctorates, blah blah blah, nothing I didn’t already… _Wait a minute._ ” _  
‘My father killed my mother, but it was my fault. My father is still alive.’_ Those had been Bruce’s words, more or less. But that was not what SHIELD had written down. “Mother: Mary-Ann Banner, stay-at-home mum. Died when you were a kid.” _Seven._ Banner had been seven when he lost his mum. Two years older than Clint when his parents died in a car crash. It had been harder on Barney. Barney had been older, he had had to grow up overnight. Well, it had been hell on both of them. Probably had been hell on Banner too. “Says here it was an accident, huh. And your father: Dr Brian Banner, one of the leading experts in atomic physics of his time… well that’s surprising.” He thought about it for a minute. Bruce had basically admitted his father had been a drunken bastard, but apparently, not all of those had to be stupid. Strange. Clint had never before imagined a choleric, alcoholic brute to be a genius. But it made sense, in a way. “Well guess we know where you got the smarty-pants. And the anger management issues. But he’s…” Clint’s eyes grew wide. Bruce had told him that his father still lived. He had told him that and there had been no reason to lie about it. Why lie about it? What for?

SHIELD was good at what they were doing. Clint knew that. That’s why discrepancies with SHIELD’s files and reality didn’t happen too often, except if you were looking at mission debriefs written by Agent Phil Coulson about the assets Barton and Romanov. Those were in pristine order, all of them. No signs of transgressions against SHIELD-protocol. Coulson had always been so great at filing paperwork. Really, really amazing. “Guess either you haven’t been in contact with your dad for at least twenty-six to twenty-seven years, considering he supposedly died of liver failure when you were ten, or SHIELD got this wrong.” He thought about it. Tried very hard to wrap his head around it. SHIELD usually didn’t get stuff like that wrong. They even knew that Clint had shot his brother in the chest and they knew he’d lived for a short while and then he’d died two days later and NYPD had found his body where some dirty mobsters had dropped it and tried to burn it. The cops had found his dog tags and used dental records to confirm the dead kid in the alley was indeed Barney Barton.

Back then, Clint had been a vigilante, on the run, living outside the law. No one knew how to reach him and no one cared, so they put his brother’s body in some grave paid for by the city of New York. That was where Barney was today. Clint had been there, years later, when he found out. Coulson had told him. Coulson had been to the cemetery with him, had waited outside while Clint stared down at the grave, completely emotionless. He had never again felt this empty. It was only later, when he dug out the police report and found the cause of death – infectious wound to the chest and blood-loss – that he knew who had killed Barney. _He_ had done it. Coulson also provided him with an FBI file. Undercover-agent Barney Barton. That was the reason Barney had been with the thugs Clint had found him amongst. He had been working for the feds. But it hadn’t been his job that got Clint’s elder brother killed.

That would always be the first article on his ledger. Back then, that had been the moment he knew that he had to turn his life around. It had also been the day when he realized there was a black pool at the bottom of his soul, it had always been there. But the day he learned of Barney’s death, he had felt the surface ripple for the first time.

So if SHIELD was so good at what they were doing, how come they got this wrong? Had Banner gotten it wrong? No. No way. He had specifically told Clint that his father was still alive to this day. Why would he emphasize something like that if he didn’t know for sure? If he hadn’t had any contact with his father for a quarter of a century, wouldn’t he just have told Clint that he didn’t know and didn’t care if his father still lived?

Sitting here, thinking about these things, turned out to be far easier than listening to Dr Martin click his pen and ask stupid questions. Hawkeye had always known he saw better from afar. When he got in too deep, when he got up close, he missed the details, he missed the bigger picture. Zooming out, having a look around from a bird’s perspective, that was helpful and clarifying. You realized stuff you hadn’t seen before. Like this discrepancy.

After his father’s death, Bruce had gone to live with his aunt and uncle. Whilst still in high-school, however, he had been recruited by a military program, obviously not for his muscle but for his brain. From there – this was page two now – the file read exactly like Clint had imagined it would: University, graduating with honours, blah blah blah. The gamma-ray project Bruce had worked on for Ross. Thanks to Natasha, Clint could see the usually blacked out bit. Banner had tried to reproduce the super-soldier serum. He’d been liaised with Elizabeth Ross. General Ross’s daughter. Yet another piece to the puzzle ‘why does Ross hate Banner so much?’.  
And then there was an entire page about the accident, newspaper articles, police records, every damn thing you could have wished for. SHIELD had been very thorough, they were good at that. Except when it came to Banner’s childhood, as it seemed.

And then the file went on and on for ages, just long lists of weapons fired at the Hulk and surveillance records of Bruce Banner on the run and damage assessment, so much damage assessment that Clint finally gave up, closed the file and rubbed his weary eyes. He needed a break. Desperately. And he needed some coffee.

He was still at the Stark Tower. He was now also wearing a tracking anklet that Natasha had brought along when she started her second watch over him, providing him and his protectors/watchdogs with some private space. Not that he didn’t know how to get out of this thing. He was an acrobat, he had very flexible joints and luckily for him, Natasha had put it on him which meant it was loose enough to get rid of if need be. But for now, he decided to stick with it. Give SHIELD a little show. Besides, nobody would see that little thing underneath his jeans, fortunately, meaning that hopefully no one would notice. Besides JARVIS, whom they had asked to keep his mouth shut because it was just a security precaution, a special tracking device just in case Ross decided to take Clint after all.

JARVIS had then suggested implanting a tracking chip underneath Clint’s skin, located at one of his many scars, perhaps. And Clint had very, very calmly told him that that was never going to happen. Ever.

He didn’t have the feeling that JARVIS had understood that message, though. And ever since then, he’d had trouble sleeping in his room at Stark Tower. He was scared waking up with one of his scars opened by one of Stark’s robots who’d put some sort of tracker into his body _‘because that’s what’s best for you, Sir’_. Damn creepy AI.

BAM!

Clint’s door burst open, colliding with the wall while someone was storming in. Clint’s reflexes had been enhanced by his training until his training became reflex, he didn’t even think or hesitate for a second. He jumped up from behind the desk, rolling to the very edge of the room so that his slim body would make less of a target for bullets. He wasted no time, because there usually was none. Whoever was brazen enough to surprise the archer like this likely had the training to bring him down, or knew at least what they were getting into.

Clint changed direction as soon as he had reached the wall, sprinting towards his opponent without a sound, dropping to the floor as soon as he’d sped up enough and gliding the last two yards over the ground. He slid in between the guy's legs - because there was only one guy, he could now see as much - and brought him down hard on his back, whirling out from under him. He slammed his elbow on the man's sternum while lying next to him, spun around on his back much like a street dancer and kicked his opponent’s weapon out of reach before getting over him in one swift motion and drawing his Walther in order to press the barrel against the soft spot right underneath his attacker's chin.

All of this had taken two and a half seconds and it was but now, when the other man’s ‘gun’ hit the wall with the sound of breaking porcelain and the smell of stale coffee and their faces were mere inches apart, that Clint realized his mistake and jerked back surprisedly.

His shoulder was complaining. Shouting swear-words at him, actually. He really shouldn't have done that role. Or the elbow-move. That had been dumb.

“Stark, what the hell…” - “NO! What the hell's the matter with you, Birdie-Boy? Wrestling people who come into your room? Didn't they teach you ANYTHING about civilized society back at spy camp?”

Clint got up, shaking slightly, leaning against his desk. He thought about crossing his arms, but even the idea hurt right now, so he clutched his shoulder instead. “Civilized society?! Because last time I checked, Stark, there was that thing called ‘KNOCKING’ in civilized society, especially when you plan on barging in on someone unannounced who has the training to KILL you if you startle them!! God, didn't they teach you basic survival instincts at whatever crazy university you went to?”  
“It was the MIT and no, I learnt how to drink, fuck and be generally even more awesome than I’d been before. How CAN I even startle you Bird-Brain? Really, WHAT does Banner see in you? It is beyond me and NOTHING is usually beyond me. How comes I get attacked by a male blondie-bear in my own damn tower? Did you get blonder? I think you did. You are the god-to-honest damn American Sweetheart of Assassins.”  
Clint blinked, confused. “Wait - _what_?!” Instead of shouting something back, he just started to laugh. “Sorry, I’ve no idea what that even _means_.” His anger stopped just like it had been sparked, from one second to the next. Obviously, his amusement transformed it to some sort of mild annoyment. “What the hell do you _want_ , Stark?”  
“Oh and you’re supposed to be bright, he? Really, Brucey-kins is losing it.” Stark rolled his eyes and then threw a bubble-gum into his mouth. He stayed on the ground, crossed his legs and put his hands on his belly. “I want you to stop corrupting my science-buddy. Don’t know what you did, but you’re fucking depressing, Barton and it’s rubbing off on him. Don’t infect him with cynicism.”  
Clint knew that the key to being a formidable sniper was waiting for the perfect moment. He was good at that. He had always been. What he sucked at, however, was any other kind of patience. He could sit on a roof for days, high above the world, watching what was happening down below. However, once he came down from his high ground, stepped back into the realms of men and had to put up with other human beings, that same patience wore out faster than he could actually pronounce the word. He preferred being on his feet, moving about, getting new intel. He hated just sitting on his ass and waiting idly while life was passing by. And right now, Stark was wasting his time and using up his patience like only Stark could. “I still don’t know what you’re playing at, Stark, but I feel like reminding you that I’m, like you like to put it, a trained _‘assassin’_ ,” he gave the word a cynical undertone, “and thereby able to kill you just as quickly as I taught you to never barge in on Natasha like you just did on me, because she’s actually the one who taught me those moves. I didn’t _break_ your science-buddy. Trust me, I intend to keep my sound distance from now on and he is welcome to do the same thing if he felt exposed or something.”

Stark cocked his head and looked at him. It took him five seconds, then he stuck his tongue out and flipped Clint off. “I’m going to expose you, Barton. I’ve got videos. I say: Shower. Time of my life. Soap.” He grinned. “I may be inclined to delete this special video. If you FUCKING STOP BREAKING MY FRIEND! Thank you. I’m supposed to be nicer to people. Please sign this paper. Behind the ‘Thank you’.” He presented Clint with a tablet. There was indeed a list to sign. The items were such like ‘Said _thank you_ ’ or ‘Closed the toilet-lit’.

The funny thing with Stark was that Clint could never tell if that sick bastard was being earnest or messing with him. Normally when confused like right now, Clint would just think about people’s agendas. Everyone had one. Everyone wanted _something_. Except for the people who already had everything. Like Stark. That was one of the many, many reasons Clint despised the guy. There was just no getting a read on him because whatever Stark did, it was most likely highly illogical, flawed and most of the time lacked a motive that could be understood by anyone within the measurable IQ-range. So he just opened and closed his mouth twice, frowning, then shook his head. He felt like Tony Stark had just broken _him_. That pissed him off. He hated being the least smart guy in a room. “Okay. You wanna play games, let’s play a game. Either you delete said video or I will MAKE you. And then you tell your precious friend to stop talking to our shrink about me because frankly, if I have to answer one more question how I _feel_ about Bruce Banner being part of this team, I’m gonna throw up. How’s that for a counterproposal?”

“You cannot threaten me, Blondie-Bird. Natasha would find out. She LIKES me. Like everyone who isn’t as BLOND as you are.” He frowned and looked at him.  
“Exhibit A. Natasha may be slightly amused by you, but she likes me more. Exhibit B. Your girlfriend is blond, Tony. Blonder than me, actually.”  
“Pepper is strawberry, Blondie-Bear. Best of hair-colours. You should look more carefully. She is gorgeous enough so don’t call her just plain blond, she is not. And Natasha likes me enough that you would get a spanking for killing me. And Fury would be FURIOUS: I am his favourite.”  
“I love being spanked by Tasha. Not a threat, Stark. Fury hates you. Just saying. I’d do the world a favour if I taught you some humility.” Was he actually starting to enjoy this? Was he actually GRINNING at Stark right now?! How had Banner called it? Bantering? Well, it was nice to be able to talk to someone who actually gave back all the crap you threw at him. It was nice to have someone you disliked so much you didn’t MIND throwing crap at him. Clint was far from being finished, but he decided to wait for what Stark would give him next. Why do all the work?  
“Well… I think I wouldn’t mind getting spanked by Romanov either. I should have thought of that. It’s the withdrawal speaking. GIVE ME BACK MY FRIEND!”  
“Never gonna happen, Stark. The girl has standards. And I still don’t get what your problem is here. What the hell did _I_ do to Banner?”  
“Exhibit One: you. No standard I can see, Blondie-Bird. And according to Bruce you’re supposed to be bright. I really don’t see it. Noooooooot at all, but Brucey tends to see only the good stuff in people. Sad, really. And I am talking about the freaking FACT that you ran after him after the legendary end of the party and now he says nice things about you and bad things about me and I don’t like it! I don’t take kindly to being cheated on, it makes me feel old and the arc-reactor starts to rust.”

That actually hurt, mostly because Clint had thought about it himself before. Natasha had a lousy choice when it came to the men she slept with. He hated each and every single one of them. So why had she chosen him, four years ago, back in Miami? Exactly. The thought wasn’t very flattering. Stark’s words weren’t either. “Why… why would he say I was BRIGHT?! When did he say that? Why were you even _talking_ about me? Don’t you have stuff to blow up or frogs to torture or whatever you’re doing in that lab of yours?”  
“I have no idea why he’d say that. On the occasion - JARVIS, give me the audio.”  
It took just a second and then there were voices floating through the room - Banner’s voice and then Stark’s to be exact. 

_“Oh my sweet boy.” Banner chuckled. ”If I wanted to talk with someone and get analyzed, I would have a DVD-Night with Barton.”_  
“BIRDIE-BRAIN?”  
“Don’t call him that. Clint is a bright one. I mean really bright. And… attentive. I wanna add ‘breakable’ but that would be mean.” 

“End of pair-therapy. I’m worried ‘bout the kids. THINK ABOUT THE KIDS BARTON!” Stark stood up and put a finger against Clint’s nose. “He wasn’t himself. He said mean stuff and he is NEVER mean, not really, he is fucking teddy-bear!”  
Clint had listened to the audio file and turned a greyish shade of milky-green without even noticing it. _’Breakable. But that would be mean.’_ Suddenly, the fun was over. He slapped Tony’s finger away, but it wasn’t a hard slap, more like he’d get rid of an irritating fly. “So that’s why Martin grilled me ‘bout that subject.” That voice... it was Bruce's voice and it was not. It was so sweet, so kind. It was so much like Natasha's Russian-Inquisition-voice that his stomach turned to ice. He felt a rush of guilt. Was it _his_ fault that Banner had become like this? Maybe. That game they’d played... the things he’d said... Banner hadn’t exactly been nice but Clint had been downright angry and hateful in the end. Maybe he’d hurt Bruce more than he’d thought he could. It had been a panicking reflex, slashing out like a wounded animal cornered up. Trying to keep his dignity, at any cost.  
“I’m sorry. I’ll... talk to him. We just... he said some stuff and then I said some stuff and I guess I sort of... well I warned him. I'm not good at this whole touchy-feely-crap and he... he knew stuff. Probably read my file. I’ll... talk to him.”  
“He didn’t. And you really ain’t that bright.” Stark huffed. “Bruce hasn’t read ANY of the files. Not even Cap’s and that’s pretty much a modern history-book. But well….FIX IT! I’m going to my lab, doing something amazing and when I am finished with that I want my goddamn science-cuddle-spaniel back, got it?” 

“Wait a moment.” Suddenly, Clint grew wary. “First of all, you’ll delete that shower-file and you’ll stop peeping at me like a thirteen-year-old through his neighbour’s windows. That’s creepy like hell. Second, why the hell did you have to ask _me_ about any of this? Can’t you just pull up the video feed of his lab and see what happened? And, I dunno, talk to your _friend_ about him being mean?” He probably had done that already, hadn’t he? Hell, Stark seemed to have a live feed of Clint’s goddamn shower. Then he’d also have one of Bruce’s lab.

“It’s gone. Deleted. JARVIS says whoever did it, did it after Bruce ASKED them to do it, so I won’t go there and grill my AI about it. He could narrate it, but he has deleted it out of HIS memory because Bruce wanted it deleted. He seems to be more considerate than me.”

 _Tasha._ He didn’t say it, but Clint knew instinctively that she’d been the one to cover it all up. She was good with computers. She had not just been watching, she’d been listening in. The thought turned his stomach to ice. She’d heard… all of that crap. Every last word. She had probably wanted to protect both of them, Bruce and Clint. He made a mental note to get her a ton of chocolates. Or visit the opera with her and do his best to stay awake. He wouldn’t talk about it to her, though. She hadn’t brought this up for a reason, she was respecting his privacy and like hell would he go off and chat about his messed up childhood or his brother with anyone else. “Yeah, well, Bruce’s good with computers. He probably didn’t want you to pry into his business.” Clint shook his head. “Seriously, Stark. This tower is freakin’ Big Brother. I’ll… try. To fix it. No promises though. Can’t fix what isn’t broken and Banner growing a spine doesn’t exactly qualify as ‘broken’ in my book.”  
“Nah, _I_ am Big Brother. And I want you to make up with Billy-Joe. I don’t care about promises and there’s a difference between growing a spine and...” He stopped for a moment. Stark crossed his arms and looked serious-to-god-damn pouting. “That wasn’t what this was. He may not be broken but he ain’t Bruce either and I WANT MY BRUCE!”

“Yeah. I heard a guy pissed off because everyone’s trying to get into his head or trying to push him around. You’re worst of all of them. I mean, Ross and Fury, they’re bad news, but at least they’re being more or less honest about it. You’re calling him your friend and a science-buddy and Brucey-Kins and teddy-bear. And yet you go behind his back and want me to _fix_ him just because he got mad at a shrink’s office - which might just be the definition of sanity. If you ask me.”  
“This is not about that freaking boy Dr Martin. It’s about what he said before that. Which is fucking personal even though it was bullshit, but it was… he was MEAN. To me. It wasn’t bantering, it was an honest to God try to HURT me. That isn’t something he would do. It’s Bruce. He is the _nice_ one.”

Clint frowned. Tony was shaken to the core, he could tell. And even though he didn’t exactly like Stark, what he was telling was… worrying. People losing it always was, of course, but if these people had the strength to bring about the world’s downfall twice (in pure strength and in intellect), things could get downright crazy. “Yeah. Yeah, he usually is, except for down in his lab…” Clint gulped. He didn’t want to talk about it. Not with Stark. Especially not with Stark. “I won’t tell you what we were talking about because it’s none of your goddamn business and if you’ve got any sense of friendship for Banner you’ll never try to get this out of JARVIS, EVER. But… we talked about personal stuff. He started it, more or less, like it was a game. I didn’t wanna play but I’m dumb, so yeah. I played. We… talked. And he got… mean. Not quite as creepy as…” he motioned towards the air, where the feed had been playing. “... but. Yeah. He got hurtful. And then I lashed out. Maybe I sort of… pushed a button or two of his. I’ll… we’ll talk. Even if that might be the dumbest plan I’ve had all week.”

“He is mean sometimes. If he needs to be. If he was being mean to help you - then that was still Brucey-kins at his normal. Mean and intelligent bastard, that he is. I don’t know if it is that , what happened with you two down there. And I can’t imagine how you of all people might’ve been able to crack his shell. He’s one tough nut.” - “Yeah, well. I’m the best marksman on the team. Makes sense that it’d be me to hit the weak spots. Sort of.” - “But that wasn’t what happened at the shrink’s. It wasn’t cutting the bad leg so it might heal. It was just…. nah. Well. I said my part. Go. Try to fix it or die trying, Birdie-Brain!” Clint sighed and suppressed a shrug. “Yeah. You got it. Just as soon as you delete that damn video feed.” - “First you’ve gotta labour, Birdy, then we’ll talk payment!” Clint hissed through his teeth when the door had finally closed behind Stark. God, he hated that guy. His eyes flickered over to the broken mug on his floor and the sea of spilled coffee it was swimming in. He’d have to clean that up now, too. If anything, he regretted not punching the billionaire any harder.

  
**II**

Stark Tower, NYC | September 5, 2013

Bruce didn’t really know what had happened. Something must have had ticked Tony off, because things were all different between them now and not so different at all. Bruce ran into his friend in the hallway and asked if he was in for a game for Mario Kart. Huh, no, he had stuff to do, papers to sign.  
Well. Curious, but possible.

But it were a lot of things. Small, minor things. Tony didn’t initiate bantering (although he did participate if Bruce started it). He didn’t throw a cushion at him when he had the chance. He didn’t insist on Bruce being a part of whatever crazy idea had caught his fancy this time. He was nice and cheeky and everything but he was also closed off and Bruce noticed that he missed being… well. _There_ for everything.  
 _And again I am the puppy someone tired of._ Bruce didn't really like that idea. It was humiliating and it also wasn't really true. He knew that. Somehow deep inside he DID know that. But it didn't change one fact: He had overstayed his welcome. It wasn't a sin he had fancied himself to be capable off, but well... He had learnt a lot about himself.

Bruce also knew that Tony wouldn't let him go, even though… even though he didn't enjoy his company that much. So Bruce didn't say anything. He just stole himself a slice of Pizza at dinner, ducked Thor’s embrace and managed to answer Steve’s “Doctor? Won’t you stay for a little chat? There’s…” with a hasty and absentminded: “No, no 'Cap. I have this experiment and I really have to be there.”

Steve had frowned. “Will there be explosions if you stay here for a little while?”  
“I don't want the Mogwais to take a bath.”  
“Mogwais…”  
“We won't make that a thing, Tony.”  
“Whyyyyyyyyy?”  
“Because Jarvis won't want to babysit them too. He's doing a bad enough job with Dummy and Butterfinger, as it is.”  
“Sir, I'm doing a splendid job. I can give you an estimation of what these two would have done without me a-”  
“What are Mogwais?”  
“And why shan't they take a bath?”  
“Your turn, Tony.”  
“But it was YOU who put them on!”  
“I am evil. Buy me a cat.”

He had tuned out the bantering which had followed him down into his evil cave of evilness (Tony's names were getting less inspired, too) and then he had been shuffling around, tinkering with this or that and – especially – his very own 100-Terabyte-Usb-Stick. It was formed like the Hulk. Tony had thought that funny. Well. Bruce wouldn't complain. He got all the data on it that he needed and he could put it at a cord around his neck like dog-tags. Bruce went to his sleeping quarters late that night, when everything was quiet.

He opened his cupboard and looked at the long row of nice black-and-white and blue-pinstripe suits. He had seldom worn any of them. He smiled wearily and then took the backpack that was sitting there under a blanket. It had everything in it that he needed. He changed into clothes that were well worn, but cleaner than he had ever seen them: Army-boots, jeans that weren't as baggy as they had been when he had come here, a T-shirt with tour-dates of the Ramones from 1981, an old flannel (red-green) and a hunter’s jacket. At last he put the old baseball-cap on his head, a cap that was so old that you couldn't quite say what colour it might have been originally. He hadn't yet visited South-America as well as he probably should have. He could go see some of the Inca-temples. A pyramid, a lost city. Or he could find a nice little place where no one spoke English or wore jeans. It didn't matter. He had to go somewhere, then go farther and farther and a little bit back, then farther again, until he was so deep in some culture far away, that even SHIELD would have a hard time to track him down unless he hulked out.

Bruce knew that JARVIS wouldn't wake anyone. He knew that because he had made a habit of going out like this once or twice a month, coming back before dawn. JARVIS would think this one of these times.  
He walked to the kitchen and then just stood there for a moment, took it all in. No more bantering. No more “DEAR DOCTOR!” to know that Thor was indeed here and wanted him to explain physics to him so he could impress Dr. Foster. (Oh, these two weeks hadn’t been nice… but in the end they had somehow managed to make Thor understand the concept of atoms. Tony had destroyed that with putting Quarks into the equation. Quarks were never a good idea if you didn't want someone to think that you were framing them. The names were just too ridiculous.) No more “Doctor Banner – is it true that people get abducted by aliens?” - “Nah, that would be absurd. They are conducted by the government for illegal experiments. The aliens are a cover story. Would you hand me the salt, Steve? Thank you.”  
No more Clint, sitting in some corner, watching everyone else and sharing small smiles with Natasha. No more documents that reinstated his humanity – Bruce wasn't stupid or naive. Ross would have that off the table the moment he wasn't under SHIELD’s jurisdiction any more.

They would forget him soon enough. Or, well… not forget. They just wouldn't think about him. And Tony would… Tony would...  
 _Drink._ Bruce sighed. He would drink so much more without Bruce there. He had intercepted with that part of Tony’s personality a lot. He had engaged Tony in conversation, he had reminded him of a date with Pepper, had run an idea by him… anything, really. He had managed to get Tony away from alcohol a lot. And now it would become worse. Seriously worse. Bruce didn't like that idea and he frowned and then he bit his lip and grinned. Ah, well... He opened the cupboard with Tony’s whiskey and chose three bottles, emptied them in the sink and then put them on the table, apple-juice and ginger-ale beside. He would make this at least _look_ real.

Bruce opened the apple-juice and then looked up, searching the shadows. He had not heard anything. And that was curious, 'cause someone WAS there. He could smell it. He could feel being watched.  
 _Not Tony, nor Steve or Thor. They are not stealth-material. Natasha or Clint. Or someone else entirely..._ Natasha wouldn't sneak up on him. He knew that for a fact. She made a show out of being seen and heard by him, when she was around. She probably didn't want to surprise him accidentally. Bruce couldn't blame her.  
Bruce didn't say anything but got a bowl out of the cupboard, put some cereal and some milk in it and a spoon and then resumed to work.

“You noticed me already, didn’t you?” Clint stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight. “You’re pretty observant. For a civilian, I mean.”

“I have been running from the military special ops for one decade.” Bruce sighed and scratched his nose. “And…. I can smell you. Somehow.” He started to look a bit sheepish, he knew it, so he tried to shrug it off. 

“Figures.” Clint came closer, looking at the empty whiskey-bottles. “First of all, use some light to get the colour right. Second, just from listening… I’d say that one over there can use some more ginger ale.” He tried to smell at his shirt unnoticably and failed miserably. “I’m smelly? I took a shower after finishing at the gym earlier…”

“You’re not smelly. Or perhaps you are, I don’t know.” Bruce cocked his head and then switched the light on, kicking his back-pack under the table. He looked closer at the bottle in question and started pouring ginger-ale in it. “It’s more like… well. I just knew that someone had to be there. I think it’s a remnant from my more animalistic side. And look at that, you were right… done that before, Barton? I really thought I was being creative here.”  
Bruce didn’t like the fact that Barton was there. It… it complicated things and he didn’t want to talk and to second-guess stuff, he just wanted to walk through the door and start the running. Round and round the globe. Alone again. _Safe._ , a voice whispered in his mind, sweet and soothing.

“Yeah, my broth…” Clint froze right in mid-sentence. “Yeah. I did that once before. Didn’t work out so well, though.”He smiled nevertheless, winking at Banner. “So you’re at pranking terms with Stark again, huh? Tried putting itching powder on his ACDC-shirts yet?”

“If I were to _make_ itching powder he would sue me for trying to kill him. It is possible now that I am a person again.” Bruce shook the bottle and ignored that he now knew that Clint had had a brother. He would have assumed sister and Natasha a substitute. Well. It was probably for the best that he wasn’t _that kind_ of doctor. It made him twitch that Clint seemed to know about his difficulties with Tony. He hadn’t thought that anyone would notice. But Clint was one to observe very closely. Well. Better him than Natasha. Or Pepper. That would have been one hell of an awkward discussion. “We were never _off_ pranking terms even though I find it mildly disturbing that that is a good thing. Just… well. I suppose you could say that our relation has met it’s natural…. slower… well. Honeymoon-phase is over.”

“Stark knows that yet?” Clint lifted his eyebrows, amusedly.

“It was his call. And no offense, Clint, but I’d rather not discuss my relation with Tony Stark with you. I seem to remember that you weren’t that big of a shipper.”

“Yeah, I’m not here to talk about your boyfriend either, Banner.” Clint sighed, pulling one of the bar chairs away from the kitchen counter and sitting down. “I actually wanted to… Oh God, I’m bad at this. Okay, so here it goes. I’m sorry about the other night, I sort of… flipped out on you and that wasn’t exactly…” He broke of, scratching the back of his head. “Well you figured out some stuff about me that I usually don’t talk about… That I choose not to talk about. Because if I do, I can’t… I’ve got to control the anger, Banner. Just like you, in a way. And I can’t do that and remember stuff that happened a long time ago at the same time. I just… can’t. So I make a point of locking it away and I don’t look at it for a reason. And that’s the sane thing to do. I’m sorry I snapped, though. You couldn’t have known and you didn’t mean to… whatever. I’m just sorry.” He rolled his eyes. “Can we change the subject before this gets any more embarrassing? I told you… touchy-feely-fluff-stuff. Not my area.”

“We should get you a bunny and call it ‘Feelings’. A fluffy one that you can cuddle with.” Bruce hid behind that joke and smiled and put the bowl with cereals in front of Clint. For a moment he tried to think about what to say and if he SHOULD say anything at all or just...well. Let the subject-change happen.  
“I already got my bow for all of that,” Clint grinned back at him, accepting the bowl. He looked as if he was planning to say ‘Thank you’ for a moment, but then he just nodded shortly, almost militarily, took the spoon and started to eat.

“Yeah, but the bow is… distance. You could use some close-range.” Bruce sighed. He liked Clint. He hadn’t known that before the party-disaster but he really did and he wanted to help to make him okay, to _heal_ him even though he didn’t know how to and even though Clint didn’t want him to.  
“You offering to help me with my close-combat-training, Banner?”Clint lifted his eyebrows, smiling. “That really a good idea? I’m not a melee fighter, but I pack a mean punch, according to Stark.”

“Oh for the love of God… has Thor punched him, too, this week? It can’t be good for his bone-structure. And I COULD take you, you know. I am mean that way. I’d attack you from behind and then I’d cuddle and nothing escapes a very close hug. I am a natural snuggler.” Bruce tried to look veeery stern but didn’t manage it. He chuckled instead. 

Clint, too, looked fairly amused. “Yeah, sorry I have to cut you short there, Banner. I like you and all and you’re a naturally flirtatious son-of-a-bitch, but Stark more or less told me to keep my hands to myself. He seems to be quite the jealous type that way. And he worries about the kids. I wouldn’t want to play homewrecker.”  
Bruce’s eyebrows shot up. Well, that was...alright, _interesting_. He had had ONE talk with Clint. How did Tony get the impression that there was any kind of meaning to it? Not that it mattered, after all. Bruce shot a look to his backpack. He would have to write Tony that he didn’t really think that it was the billionaire’s place to chase away his young gentleman-friends. “That is quite a shame, really, I mean-”

Clint suddenly stood up, bowing down and looking under the kitchen counter. Damn, his eyes really didn’t miss a thing, did they? Dragging out the backpack, Barton just turned around to face Banner, eyebrows lifted high enough to almost touch his hairline. No question spoken aloud. He didn’t need to. 

Bruce shrugged and smiled. “I do that two, three times a month. I call it emergency drill. Ask JARVIS. I usually bring back Donuts in the morning.”  
“This is actually the fourth time this month, sir. You never do that more than three times, normally.”  
“I couldn’t sleep, JARVIS, it happens.”  
“You didn’t lie down.”  
“You don’t have cameras in my room.”  
“No, but motion sensors.”

That earned him silence. Bruce got the feeling, that - wouldn’t he go tonight and leave for Mexico or Russia or anything like that - he and Tony would have to have that talk about boundaries. Again. 

Clint didn’t look completely convinced. “So you’re planning on leaving again, you just haven’t figured out when.” He had a grim expression on his face. “You realize that would destroy Stark, right? I mean, by all means. Go ahead. It’s not like I care for the guy, in fact you’re the only one who claims to like him. But that’s no way to treat a friend… to treat the people who care for you, you know that, right? Besides, we’d find you in like six hours. Maybe eight. Tasha and I make a pair of mean sniffer dogs.”  
Bruce stood up straighter and put his hands in his pockets, just so he wouldn’t cross them. He wasn’t defensive. This was nothing he had to be defensive about. This was...this was him, making the right call and he wouldn’t let a boy… or young man… tell him that he was being an idiot when he really had no idea about… alright, so he did have _some_ idea. Pretty much a very good idea, but _fuck it_.

“Naturally I’m planning on leaving one day. But don’t you dare tell me you don’t have at least ten exit-plans yourself. It was never… I was never meant to stay here for all eternity and I knew pretty damn well that there would be a time to leave. And that time is now, because Tony will actually be quite relieved. I prefer to go on my own terms. Any other way, Pepper might have to give me the talk, like she had with all his past One-Night-Stands and I really can’t pull that walk in Hotpants off that good. I am an old man. I prefer to go at night, when there will be no big scenes.”

“Thirty-three, actually.” Clint smiled, but it was a sad smile. “Sixteen exit strategies for my apartment alone, the other seventeen are for SHIELD HQ and my ways out of the country. I always figured I’d kind of… get creative once I’d crossed the border. Bruce… all that running. I do get it. Trust me. I do. I started running when I was nine years old and only because I stopped eight years ago doesn’t mean I’m not prepared to rush off at any second. Once you’ve started running, you can never stop to think about exits. But you’re wrong about Tony. I know you are. I never thought I’d say it about that smug asshole but yeah, he cares for you. Really. He likes you and that’s not some one-night-stand-crap or whatever. You are his friend. You rushing off without as much as a how-do-you-do… that’s cruel.”

“I am a cruel man, Clint.” Bruce said it and he felt tired and beaten and weary and he somehow got the feeling that he wouldn’t get out tonight. Not after this. He sacked down on a chair and snatched the bowl of cereals from Clint. Fruit-Loops. He HATED Fruit-Loops. Bruce gave the bowl a growl and a stern look and put it back on the counter. 

“I think you’d love to be cruel because it would make stuff so much easier for you. But you’re the exact opposite and that makes life a livin’ hell.” Clint didn’t object to the attempted theft of ‘his’ cereals, seeing that he’d only had two spoons of the stuff anyways and that Bruce placed them back between them both as soon as he’d realized what he’d put in there. “The guy you’re cruellest towards is yourself. What’s your best argument for running away? Tell me. Right now. Why would you run? And don’t give me the Tony-bull because that’s not a reason, that’s you bein’ a coward. What’s this really about?”

Tony was the reason. Not the only reason, sure enough but he was the reason to go now of all times. And Bruce had started to notice that there were things he… He shouldn’t be here. He was not a good member of this team, he was no good friend, he was… he was not fit to be around people. “I have every right to be a coward, Clint. I can’t run as far as I want to run but I can try the next best thing. And I could show you how cruel I can be, ‘cause-”

“The RIGHT? What is that even supposed to mean? The _right_ to be a coward?” Clint burst out, interrupting him in mid-sentence. “That’s complete bull. Come on. Yeah, you can say some hurtful stuff. You don’t need to demonstrate that again, we agree on that part. But running because you can’t ‘run as far as you’d want to run’? Seriously? That’s your big excuse?! Because that stinks, man. That’s just stupid. What are you trying to do? Protect people? Keep everyone safe? Tough luck on that one. You can’t go anywhere on this entire planet and accomplish that, but you’ve got a goddamn IQ that isn’t even measurable. I don’t have to tell you that.” He shook his head. “Nah, you’re being a coward. This is you being too scared to actually stop running away for a while that takes longer than your shirts to dry. I get it. But being scared does NOT give you the right to treat Tony like that. Do whatever you want. I won’t stop you. But don’t try to pretend you’re doing the right thing. ‘Cause you’re not.”

Bruce felt anger in his belly. Not the green hot anger, although that was there too. It boiled and he knew, he had to try to relax, to fucking put it in the background where it belonged, but there was another kind of anger, too and that anger was cold and sharp. It was steel and a snarl on his lips and it was the wish to leash out and to _hurt_ Clint. Not because he was afraid or because he wanted to make Clint stop, but because he thought for a moment that he deserved pain, that the whole world deserved pain, the same pain he had. That anger was sweet and soothing and it spoke of a way to calm him. Bruce gulped down the bitter bile in his throat and then he shot Clint a look. Because he had to stop nonetheless. He would not listen to that. “So what is the right thing then, Barton? ‘Cause clearly: I can’t see it. What would you do, if Loki came back, had his nice scepter and there was an 80% chance that you might get controlled again suddenly, that you might attack Natasha or something like that? I can tell you what you would do, Clint. If SHIELD didn’t get you early enough and put you in a cage, you would be sitting in your flat - where, I am sure as hell, you live alone and you keep it that way even though you loathe it - and then you would put a gun to your mouth or you would fling yourself down a window. Can’t say it’s the right choice, ‘cause we would catch Loki eventually and free you from being a damn threat to everyone. You could redeem yourself. You could heal. I have tried to heal myself for ten years now and I know: There is no way. I went into the Antarctic and tried to kill myself and guess what: Didn’t work. There’s no cage that will be able to hold me, there is no way for this to end. You know what my choices are Barton? To do nothing or to try to keep away from things that _get to me_ emotionally and to stay somewhere where the bodies that will be around me when I wake up at least don’t have names I can remember. Is that too much feely-cuddly-stuff for you or do you want a bunny on top?”

Clint just looked at him for a moment. There was something uninterpretable in his face. He looked a bit like a kid who had been told that his parents were never coming back, frozen on the spot, calm and cold and numb and just _broken_. When he finally answered, his voice was flat and he seemingly skipped the entire Loki-suicide-part as if he hadn’t heard it or chose to ignore it. “And you think wherever you’ll go from here, you’ll be able to not _feel_ anything? There will always be something you care about, Bruce, whether you stick around for it or leave it behind. You won’t just stop being Tony’s friend because you’re no longer in the same town as he is. And you think he’d just let this go, like that? Fuck, man, he’s got rocket launchers or whatever in that suit of his. Not even the Hulk can outrun him. He’d come for you and guess what, that talk might also get a little bit emotional.”

He was Bruce now, wasn’t he? He couldn’t remember if Clint had called him that before. He sat there and watched this young guy who was pretty damn good at seeing things from a distance. He would never see what lay right in front of him and Bruce got the feeling that he would have liked to see what he would be like if he could be shown. If he could just be happy with Natasha, happy for like a few months or a year, happy and content and knowing that he deserved it.  
He felt burnt out. Really, there wasn’t that much fight left in him, not for the night. So he stood up and went over to the counter beside Clint and pulled out a picture, placing it on the countertop. It was the one of Betty and her husband. Samson. Bruce smiled when he let his fingers dance over Bettys face. “Her name is Elizabeth. Betty. She is… well. The love of my life, really. She is kind and funny and very dominant. Scary at times if she sets her mind on it. She’s also loyal and brave and sometimes clumsy and she has awful taste in movies. You two would hit it off right away. We were together for… five years, when _it_ happened. The picture was taken last spring. This is her husband. He’s a psychologist and he seems to be a real gentleman. He makes her smile.”

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t want to speak it out. But then he looked at Clint again and he thought that maybe he did need to do it. That he had to make this crystal clear, so there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings, any way to turn this around again. 

“People are replaceable. We like to tell ourselves that this isn’t the case, but it is. I am not Tony’s best friend and at the moment he is growing tired of me anyhow. His best friend is this War Machine-guy and besides that he has Pepper. I am a stray, son. And after a while he will forget me and he will be happy without me. You all will. That’s… that is _my_ happy ending.” Bruce put a finger on the photo. “A happy picture without me in it.” 

“Yeah, well, I know a thing or two about strays. Being one myself and all. We make for the most loyal pets.” Clint winked, but it didn’t feel like a joke, even if it had sounded just like one. “You know what’s the crazy part about all of this? I think you actually believe this... exchangeable-theory. And I’m not... I’m not all that smart or as educated as you are or as experienced but... I’ve lost... people. I’ve lost people too, in my day and… recently. And I’m probably wrong about this because I’ve never really been in... love. Or anything like that. But... when you lose someone, someone important, you don’t just replace them. You can’t. Maybe that’s me being a stray or whatever. I mean, yeah, sure, you fill the void. Sooner or later. Mostly later. You try. But it’s not... the same thing. It can never be and no matter how far you move on, there will always be that part of you that still... misses. So you either close it in or you get mad about it. But you don't just _replace_ people.” He looked at Bruce, all young and naive and earnest as hell. “People don’t just replace _you_ , Bruce.”

Barton was a goddamn liar. A pretty good one. He was good with the touchy-feely kind of stuff and Bruce felt like he was out of his depth. He didn’t know what to do, so he just stood there and breathed and after a while, he pulled at his hair, closed his eyes and sighed. “I take it back. I want that bunny for myself and I’m going to call it Mr Cuddles and if I ever want to leave it will just sit there and let me go and accept JARVIS as its new overlord.”  
He sighed again and his stomach rumbled and there was some kind of pain behind his eyes. He really didn’t think, that this should be like this. Why wasn’t Tony here? Bruce could handle Tony. He knew what he had to do with Tony. He didn’t know with Clint. He really didn’t.  
“Of course you’ve been in love, Clint. And you’re destroying my happy place here, that’s not nice. I am an old man. It’s hard for me to adapt to new situations and the fact that I can withstand Natasha batting her eyelashes doesn’t mean it’s fair for you to go all puppy-eyes on me.”

He stood there for a moment and then went over to the couch and patted the place beside him. For a few moments, he could see the assassin fidgeting on the spot, hesitatingly, before he finally followed the unspoken order.

When Clint had sat down, Bruce put his head in the assassin’s lap and his legs over the other end of the couch. Then he closed his eyes. “So, you’re getting me to stay and to not break any imaginary heart that Anthony Stark might hide under his Arc-Reactor. I get to choose a treat. Tell me a story. Tell me something nice and warm. A memory. About Natasha or about your brother or whatever catches your fancy.”

For the first few moments after Bruce had actually touched Clint, there was a stiffness about the archer, as if he was ready to jump up and run away. But he didn’t. Maybe it took all the strength, all the self-control he could muster, but he didn’t flinch away and he didn’t run. “A story…” Clint frowned slightly. “Okay. Here it goes… I guess.”

But it didn’t. For a minute or two, Clint was just sitting there, uncomfortably tense, as if collecting his thoughts. Then, finally, he started to talk in a strained voice that sounded slightly as if he was giving a military report of some sort. “When I was eleven, my brother and I were living at the carnival. We came there when I was nine, but that’s… another story. So anyhow, that one night, it was my turn to do the cats.” He hesitated. “That’s carnie-lingo for tigers, panthers, leopards, lions, you name it. We had a big bunch of cats and that night I got to feed them. Which wasn’t so bad, you know, except for Bagheera.”

There it was again, silence, as if Clint had to think about what to say next. “Bagheera was… well, not exactly mean. Animals don’t get mean. He was a black panther. Someone read the Jungle Book or whatever, I suppose. Well he wasn’t man’s best friend like the cat in the Disney-movie. He had had it pretty rough, born in the wild and then shipped off to some zoo where they put him in with the tigers and he didn’t like other cats, so he got in some pretty nasty fights and they had to sell him in the end before he got himself killed. So he was missing an eye an’ half an ear an’ he was distrustful on his good days and ready to kill you on his worst. So yeah, we kids weren’t really supposed to go inside his cage and we usually didn’t. But there was this bunch of other kids at the carnival and that one summer we had this kind of contest going on. I mean, everything was fair game to us, swimming, running, riding the zebras, holding our breath underwater, soccer, you name it. And back then, Barney and me, well... we were still a little gacho. ‘Gacho’ means that we weren't really carnies although we were workin’ the carnival, we hadn't been born there, we were outsiders. We were learning the lingo and we always pretty good at adapting but yeah... so anyhow. That one night it’s my turn to do the cats and Barney’s off to town to do some shopping, you now, supplies. Food mostly. And there’s this kid Tim and his brother Josh and they sort of waited for me outside the cats. I’d beaten both of them a few times at the contests and well… we weren’t exactly friends. I guess you know where this is heading. They sort of had it out for me an’ they knew I’d be a lot more stupid with Barney not around. ‘Cause you were righ’, Barney was always kind of... my brains. Lookin’ out for me an’ stuff.” 

He didn’t seem to realize he was starting to sound more and more like a carnie whilst talking, sliding back into an accent or some sort of slang. “So they dared me climb over Bagheera's cage. An’ it wasn’ as if I couldn’ do it, I was a damn good climb even back then, bu’ I knew that it was dumb an’ so it went so on an’ forth and in the end they’d gotten me to do it anyways. I suck at discussions.  
So yeah. I get up there an’ I get up to me feet an’ start to climb over an’ suddenly they start to throw rocks at me. Jus’ for fun, ye know, not really _at_ me. We did that all the time, is part of the training. You have to be good on your feet to stay standing while people mess with you, irritate you. But that’s important because when you’re in the Big Top an’ kids are screaming an’ music is blazing an’ your heart is racing, you can’t get distracted. So yeah, that wasn’t really a big deal. Except I had just started learnin’ to walk on a tightrope that summer and there was no net to fall into when I lost my footing, but... Bagheera's cage. Yeah. So I fall down there, righ’ in to the beast, and he’s not happy, Bagheera. Not at all happy. He was pretty startled at first, so I managed to get up, but then he got down and started growlin’."

Clint went silent again, but while he was talking, his tone had shifted from the military short sentences to an actual storyteller's incantation and Bruce was pretty sure that this break was there to build up suspense.

“The thing about cats is, you can’t get down around them. Once you fall down, means you’re defenseless. Now a kid is pretty small, compared to a man and I’m pretty small for my age. An’ I was lyin’ on me back before. An’ Bagheera’s jus’ cowering there, ye know, an’ outside I hear the boys shoutin’. But I know that no one's comin’ because all the grown-ups are in the Big Top preparing for the night show and until they make it here I’m likely Bagheera’s dinner. An’ I should have run, bu’ even for a kid as slim as me back then, slippin’ through the bars wasn’t a real option. So I just stand there, all freezed up. An’ Bagheera’s pretty startled an’ he doesn’t know what we’re doing, so I start talkin’ to him. The funny thing was that I was so out of it, I didn’t exactly know what to say. What do you say to a cat that’s trying to eat your face? ‘Please don’t?’ So yeah, I started reciting. We had the presidents in school and Barney had been quizzing me the night before, so they sort of stuck with me and I went on and on, one president after the other, real calm because you can’t mess with an angry cat, but you also can’t seem scared. I don’t know how long that goes. It feels like ages. And I keep on repeating all the presidents in order, again and again until suddenly, I see Barney standin’ on the other side of the cage with a big rock in his hands. An’ he’s all white and scared, but he’s lookin’ at me and I understand when I hear the boys in my back fuzzin’ around with the doorlock. So I nod and keep on telling Bagheera about the presidents and then Barney throws the rock and the boys open the door and I turn ‘round an’ rush out and we slam it shut just before Bagheera has us all for dinner.” 

Clint grinned, tipped Bruce on the side of his face with one of his fingers. “You know what happens next? Barney comes over an’ he gives me one o’ the biggest slaps of me life. An’ he tells me ‘You dumbass forgot Reagan’.” He laughed. “Tha’s all he said to me. ‘You dumbass forgot Reagan.’”

“One should never forget the Cowboy, especially at a carnival.” Bruce hummed. He felt happy and content and like he could sleep there on the couch, his head on Clint’s lap, his voice drowning everything out. “Remember when we told Cap?” He grinned at the memory and he grinned cause the anger was gone for the moment and so was the nausea. “But that was a really nice story, thank you. You’re good at that. You’re good at being happy.” _I never got the hang of that myself._ Bruce smiled and imagined the panther and the cage and little Clint standing there being all stunned and street-smart and afraid and then - afterwards - laughing about it. 

They were silent for a little while, staring straight ahead. Clint didn’t even seem to realize that his hand had sort of found a place on Bruce’s head and when he did, he surprisingly didn’t even seem to mind. He removed it, but slowly, placing it on Bruce’s shoulder instead. Bruce could feel the touch. Clint’s fingers had been rough, hard from all the hard work he’d done over the years, but his touch was careful, soft, almost lovingly kind. It was then that Clint seemed to decide that he had to say something about being good at being happy. “I’m not, actually, but well… back then, we were. We were some crazy little sons of bitches, Barney and me. But we did okay, I guess. We had… each other. Guess I’m not half as subtle as I’m tryin’ to be with this but yeah… cudldy-feely-stuff and me never really liked each other. So here it goes. Thing is, you’re right, I suck at bein’ alone. Everyone does, some are jus’ better at hidin’ it. But none of us is happy unless we’re… together. That’s what it means, bein’ a stupid human being. We’re like zebras. We’re meant to be kept in a bunch and if you keep just one of us, you might as well shoot us.”

“When I was ten and I had just started living with my aunt and uncle and my cousin, they sent me to a psychiatrist. Young woman. They thought I would… well, I wouldn't be frightened by her I guess. She was sweet enough and I told her about school, because she wanted me to. I told her that everything was fine, that I was good at my courses, that chemistry was actually kind of fun. I told her about the acid I had made. I said I did it accidentally but they gave me a price nonetheless and my aunt put it on the fridge besides my cousin’s paintings. She always painted me sad.” Bruce kept his eyes closed. He kind of wished Clint would put his hand back on his head. It had been relaxing and nice and although his hands were rough and calloused, they reminded him of touches he had long forgotten. Familiar, warm touches that could sooth you through the night. “I didn't want her to paint me sad, but she said that I WAS sad and so she would paint me that way. She is stubborn like that. Always has been. I tried my best to not trouble anyone. They must have been troubled and scared right from the start.”

Bruce couldn't really imagine what that must have been like. They had taken in their nephew and they had known that he had been there when his father had killed his mother. That he had lived with that man for three more years after that. They could not have known what to expect. And he hadn't been that good back then at encouraging nice, cuddly feelings.  
“The psychiatrist actually listened. When my uncle spoke with her she told him that school in itself wouldn't be a problem, but… well. I never mentioned other kids to her. I never mentioned talking to anyone at all. So, that became a problem. I was supposed talk with people about other stuff than school or homework. More than ‘Thank you’, more than ‘I am fine’. I didn’t know how to do that. I guess I must have looked the part. The lady said I could train at home. Train with a mirror. It felt as stupid back then as it would today, but I followed orders quite thoroughly. So at home I talked with the mirror, thirty minutes a day. I sat down in front of the mirror, looked myself in the eye and said: ‘Hello Robert.’ and my reflection would smile, cock its head and say: ‘Well, hello to you too, Bruce.’ It took me quite some time to get to the part where I understood that that wasn't how that was supposed to work. I imagined conversations and I imagined them good. I could play with my reflection at one point, I told him about my day and he told me if I had gotten something wrong. Robert had quite the attitude towards other people. He never really liked them, except for my closest family.”

Bruce could hear someone else breathing. He didn't need to open his eyes to know that there was someone who looked just like him, sitting on a chair, playing with a look of hair. _“Do you really want to tell him THAT, Bruce? You can still go somewhere else. Lie. The truth might let him think that you're crazy. We can't have that now, can we?”_

Bruce breathed in and out and Clint was warm underneath him and there where those fingers again, warm and calloused on his hair. He smiled without opening his eyes. He was half asleep as it was.

“The funny thing was that the talks grew longer. Robert understood, Robert… was soothing, somehow. And I thought: Well. That ain’t bad. I should talk with someone and at least, I can’t scare him, nor can he hurt me in any way. And then, one morning, I came down to eat breakfast and there was a new painting on the fridge. It were two figures, both smiling and drinking tea. ‘So I am finally happy?’, I asked Jen and she looked at me and said: ‘Nah. That's Robert.’”

There was just a small break, big enough for Bruce to take a deep breath. Robert was smiling at him, he just knew it. _“You are such an emotional fool sometimes, Banner. Adorable, but a fool nonetheless.”_ Bruce tried to will him away and it worked and he and Clint were alone in the room again and he felt a little bit less like a child, running to it's imaginary friend.

“I never was alone, Clint. I've always been too broken for that.”

He didn't want an answer to that. He put a hand up and closed Barton’s mouth with his fingers. “Wasn’t meant as a sad story, Clint. So don’t say anything in that regard. This is cuddly-time. Don’t destroy cuddly-time with feelings, unless Feelings is a big fluffy bunny.” He took another, deep breath and then he was asleep.

 

Clint watched the sad man sleeping for a while, just sitting there, fondling his hair like the head of an extraordinarily large dog. _Well if that’s his idea of a warm and fuzzy story, we seriously need to work on that,_ Clint mused and suppressed a shudder, before he managed to get out from under Bruce, putting his head on a pillow and his body under a blanket. His assassin-training came in handy, he managed to kill off the lights and sneak out unnoticed. When he turned back, he could still see Banner sleeping on the couch, his hair a dark mess with small silver streaks, almost glittering in the moonlight. He hesitated, then he turned back, stole the backpack from the floor and took it with him to hide it away somewhere, as if he’d force Bruce to stay that way. 

He didn’t speak any more until he’d safely shut the door to his room, undressed, taken a shower and slid in between the blankets. Talking to the AI still felt like talking to himself. Stupid. But he did it anyway. “Delete the video feed of that kitchen-talk, JARVIS. All of it. You know he’d want it that way. Also forget what you deleted as soon as you’re done. Just… wipe it out completely. And next time we get in a situation like this one, why don’t you just remind us to have sex instead. I’m not at all into guys or into Bruce or whatever, but seriously… that would be more fun. And we’d probably be quicker about it, too. You’d also for once get to keep the tape so that Tony can enjoy his own private little peep-show.” 

He yawned, dived in under the pillows, and then knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. That was our idea of fluff. Be warned for the future.


	10. 9. Hey Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is mainly about the tough love only family can give us. There will be flashbacks because drakendottir just haaaaad to have them and then there's some hunting, mainly for people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a more detailed **warning** concerning triggers in this chapter, please check the end notes!

  
**9\. Hey Brother**

_Hey Brother, there’s an endless road to re-discover_  
 _Hey Sister, know the water’s sweet but blood is thicker_  
 _Oh, if the sky comes fallin’ down, for you_  
 _There’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do_

_Hey Brother, do you still believe in one another_  
 _Hey Sister, do you still believe in love I wonder_  
 _Oh, if the sky comes falling down, for you_  
 _There’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do_

 

**I**

Stark Tower, NYC | September 6, 2013

The Stark Tower had seldom been this crowded. Steve Roger’s apartment building had been evacuated due to mouldy walls, but ever since the party, he hadn’t been the only Avenger sleeping over, with Natasha and Clint crashing there just as well as Thor, who had fixed rooms in the Tower whenever he came for a visit from Asgard.

That was why Clint wasn’t at all surprised to hear laughter and voices even before he entered the kitchen in the early morning. Most of his teammates were rather early birds, standing up at sunrise and sharing breakfast after they’d dealt with their usual morning activities. Steve was sitting there in his training gear, already sweaty from boxing through one of his punching bags. Thor, whose hair was still wet from the shower, was having a not so subtle discussion with an obviously bleary-eyed Tony Stark (according to the looks of him, that guy had worked all night) regarding his hammer and some sort of experiment and even Banner, strangely cheeky this morning, was joining in on that one. Clint didn’t exactly wait around to see whether he was helping out Thor or Tony or just messing with both of them. It was one hell of a discussion, judging by Natasha’s amused smirk. “Good morning,” Clint smiled, in a better mood than most days at this hour. He’d already had his coffee, but that wasn’t it. Natasha and he would be going for a little hunt. He couldn’t wait to get out of the tower, or out of New York, for that matter. He’d even been to town already. In his arm, he was carrying a big, fluffy, fuzzily pink stuffed rabbit, a tad too large for a kid, but exactly the right size for a grown-up. He walked over to Banner, a silly grin on his face and handed him the toy whilst sliding in the empty seat beside him, touching Bruce’s chin gently and giving him a warm, affectionate look. “Thank you so much for last night, Cuddles” the assassin said, kissing the other man right on the mouth, one big kiss, standing up again. “I'll see you in a few days, alright? Don’t get your sugar elsewhere while I’m gone.”

He winked at Banner and then looked at Natasha, ignoring the stupid faces around him as best he could, as if he hadn't just done something wildly inappropriate. It was hard. It was so hard. Steve, all self-righteous and horrified in the eyes of homosexuality, Thor’s toast dropping from his mouth, Tony just plain stupid and Natasha… even Natasha looked mildly surprised. It was gold. 

“Agent Barton, is this one of those times when I should tell you to just have sex with Dr Banner instead of talking?” Clint saw a stupid grin grow on Banner's face as he answered to the AI in Barton’s place: “This is one of the times he would get it. He just gave me a bunny.” Clint couldn't help but pile on. “JARVIS, you're absolutely right. Thanks. But your timing is just as imperfect as your interpretation of human behaviour is brilliant. Can I have a rain check, sweetcheeks? We've really gotta roll, Tasha and I.” - “Sure thing, lovebug.” Clint smiled and felt Bruce's hand on his ass, clapping him just like Tony did it with Pepper sometimes, as Barton walked out, Natasha following right behind him.

Whilst leaving the room, they could still hear Tony who apparently had regained his ability to speak. “So he bought you a rabbit… that doesn't force your hand, Brucey-kins! Don't let yourself be coerced! I LOOK AFTER YOU!”

“Do I even want to know?” Natasha fell in beside Clint, her entire face one big question mark. “Just messing with Stark, Tash. No worries. I didn't turn gay overnight.” She grinned. “Good one, though, Barton. He certainly bought _that_. You piling on when we get back?” He couldn’t quite help the sadistic grin forming on his lips. “Oh yeah.” She laughed. “I want in.”

God, he loved that woman. He loved her to death and to hell and back. “Sure thing, sweetheart. Any suggestions?”

  
**II**

Peninsula Hotel, Chicago | September 9, 2013

The night wind was tugging at Hawkeye’s short hair, almost deafening him for the sounds around him. Far, far below, he could still hear the faint voice of chaos. The city was raging, golden street canyons sparkling with the rush of traffic and millions of neon signs and the many, many pale windows, staring blindly into the dark, but above him there was nothing but the empty night sky. The light below drowned the stars, thrusting them back into invisibility, pushing them out of his sight and into the abyss of eternity, but Clint didn’t mind. He had never been much of a stargazer and right now, he had eyes for neither sky nor ground. His objective was far more beautiful than a few glittering lights on the dark blue firmament and so much more deadly than the yawning chasm right below him, luring him with gold and crimson and the faint boom of hundreds of vehicles. He could see her on the small laptop screen to his right, making her way out of the hotel’s video control room, red hair dancing over the shoulders of her power suit. She looked like a businesswoman, she even wore glasses. God, glasses were so damn sexy on Natasha. She really made smart work, that one. _“You got access yet?”_ – “Oh yeah.” He adjusted the comlink in his ear in order to hear her more clearly, then he clicked a few keys and deleted any footage that featured his partner, replacing it by loops, including the current feed. “You’re officially the sexiest ghost in the building, Red Three.” – _“Copy that, Red Five. Talk me through it.”_

He smiled. He wasn’t exactly the handling type, he’d always been more comfortable in the field, but this wasn’t the first time he played eyes and ears for Natasha while she breached a premises. They’d done it this way, they’d done it the other way around. He couldn’t really decide what he liked better, to watch her work or to actually get in on the action and have her voice in his head every step of the way. Today was a great day. He’d get to do both – control, comlink-bantering and actual combat. “Sending you an elevator. Second one to the left. Get on it in three – two – one – now.” Natasha stepped into the suddenly opening elevator, its doors sliding shut just as the security patrol came around the corner. _“Pretty close timing, Red Five.”_ – “You’re not blown, are you, Red Three?” – _“You tell me. Am I?”_ She winked at the elevator camera and he grinned back although she couldn’t see him.

Clint watched the security guards enter the video control room, finding their colleague asleep on his keyboard. They woke him up, not realizing he’d been drugged by Tash rather than just a lazy sleep-addict. “Well, they’re not happy, but we anticipated for that.” He switched the audio channel and listened in on their discussion. “Good news, Red Three. They’re not sure he’s slept of natural causes and they’re doing a sweep of all floors, starting with the penthouse and going down from there. There’s a team waiting to board your elevator on 26.” – _“How the HELL is that good news?”_ He grinned. “Because I get to see you do a little climbing. Move. Now.”

She gave the elevator-camera a dirty look before she made her way through the ceiling vent and vanished into the elevator well and out of his sight. It didn’t matter much because she was on top of the lift he was still controlling. He let it stop on the twenty-sixth floor, watched a pair of security guards enter and then took them exactly two and a half stories up before he cut the power to the elevator.

“Two down. Three more to go. Let’s hope we can avoid ‘em, too. You still good, Red Three?” - _“Stop asking stupid questions. Just open the damn doors, will you?”_

He chuckled. “Hey, what’s with the attitude tonight?”  
The glance she gave the nearest surveillance camera as soon as she exited the elevator well on the twenty-ninth floor wasn’t pissed any more, it was angelically sweet. _Ouch._  
 _“I really liked that blouse, you know.”_ \- “Yeah, well, you wouldn’t get to keep it anyways, so what’s the big fuss if you get a little dirt on it? Turn left. Third door on the right should get you to the stairwell. It’s eleven floors up.” She stopped dead and looked up at the nearest camera. It was so damn sexy how aware she was of his eyes at any time. _“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”_  
He chuckled, talking back as innocently as he could. “Well, I would _never_ , you know that, Red Three.” - _“More like I know you too well,”_ she growled. _“Next time, I make the dramatic entrance and_ you _get to play foot soldier.”_ – “As long as I get to see said entrance? Deal.”

 

Hawkeye had never been scared of heights. He didn’t scare that easily. For Clint, fear and bravery were all about control. As long as he was able to control a situation, he needn’t be afraid. And nothing said control like the cold handle of his bow in his hand, pressed safely against the base of his thumb, his other fingers only touching it lightly. 

_‘The secret to holding your bow steady doesn’t lie in grabbing it as tightly as possible. Light touches. Love the handle. Your wrist should be pointing directly to the bow’s centre. Makes for a lot less bow movement, see? Now turn your elbow inward or the arrow will cut your arm. Inward, I say! God, you might be the worst student I’ve ever had… What a waste of my… Right, that’s it. Now let’s see how you draw…’_

Shots like the one he was going to do were _easy_. Any beginner with a back strong enough or a compound bow advanced enough could have taken it, not definitely _made_ it, but yeah. Taken it. His target was large enough for him to shoot with close to no aiming at all. Two hundred seventy feet (which for an archer like Clint still qualified as close range), at night – but the glass façade of the Peninsula Hotel made for great lighting directly below the wall he wanted to hit. He didn’t exactly _see_ his target, but he saw where it would be, that was more than enough. He just had to aim a little bit higher than the penthouse window. Simple as that. The wind was pretty strong, but he could feel it, he felt it on his skin and in his hair and he didn’t need calculations to know what angle was needed to still make the shot. It was all in his gut.

He could have performed this shot with his eyes half-closed, even at night. He could have done it in mere split seconds, out of the heat of battle, while still turning around or while falling of the building or while dodging an opponent’s blow.  
But there was no need for any of that right now. This was almost like standing at the range, no watchers, no urge, no fight going on, just him and the wind howling in his ears and the bowstring humming when he drew it. 

_‘Your fingertips and your elbow need to be in a straight line, an extension of your arrow. Lower your elbow. Lower.’ A clap. ‘Lower, I say. Relax that shoulder, no cramping up. Don’t draw with your arm and shoulder. Use your back, always your back. Breathe in while you draw. Loosen, let’s try that again… That’s it.’_

He lifted the bow, locked the arrow to the string and pulled. 

_‘Breathe in when you draw your bow. Hold steady and aim. Slow your breathing. Control. It’s all about control. Exhale. And relax your fingers... See? Seems like you’re an archer now. A crappy one at that, but come time… you might even hit the target someday.’_

He loved shots like this one. It felt like he had all the time in the world, all the control over what was going to happen. He could analyse every single one of his movements that had become reflexes over the years, had time to review the tensing of every single muscle in his back, in his arms and shoulders while he breathed in calmly and drew his bow, his eyes looking along the arrow shaft. Aiming. He took his sweet time, enjoyed that moment of control before the air pushed out of his lungs and he stood there completely motionless, perfect form, no cramping up, just calm and strength and purpose and then his fingertips just let go and the string sung its battle song and the arrow yanked forward, unstoppable now, pulling the wire over the street canyon, anchoring itself in the wall on the other side, creating a safe bridge to that penthouse two stories down and a yawning gap away from Hawkeye’s current position. Clint breathed through again while he put the bow down and tightened the wire on his side, making sure it would hold him while he was also checking on Natasha in the stairwell. She had already made 36. Gosh, that girl was quick on her feet, she just kept on surprising him. He wouldn’t have bet anything more than 34, maybe 35.

_“You made that shot yet or are you still fondling your bow?”_ – “Ready to go, actually.” He frowned. “Tasha… stay put.” She stopped right where she was standing. _“What?”_ – “Company. Three. Get out of there NOW.” The door two stories above Black Widow jerked open and the security doing an all-hotel search entered the staircase. Natasha retreated to the 36th floor, but in that moment, Clint spotted more trouble. “You can’t stay there. Another two incoming.” _Shit, where did those to come from?_ Why hadn’t he seen them before? Crappy work, Barton. Damn crappy work.  
 _“Where am I going? Talk to me, Red Five…”_ He actually had to take a look at the floor plans to be able to answer that one. “There’s a supply closet, directly next to the stair case, right side. You can’t miss it.”

_“Copy that.”_ She sneaked in there just in time. Clint exhaled. “Well, that was… interesting.” – _“That’s exactly the reason why next time, YOU’re doing the footwork, Red Five.” – “Oh come on. That wasn’t that bad, was it? Be honest. You dig the adrenaline.” – _“I’d ‘dig’ it more when you’d stop chattering and start giving me reasonable instructions.”_ Clint kept on monitoring the emergency stairwell as well as the floors above and below Natasha’s hideout, while his partner did her best to not grow impatient. “Okay. You’re good. Back to the staircase, four more stories up.”_

The howling got louder. Up here, on top of the skyscraper across the street from the Peninsula Hotel, it felt almost stormy and not to whine, but he was getting a little bit cold. Clint looked over the street through the brightly lit windows of the penthouse suite, touching his earpiece to make sure he’d hear Natasha in spite of the wind. One short glance told him that Natasha had reached the top floor and was proceeding to the hallway. “There you go, Red Three. Penthouse. He’s got two private security guards on the inside, both armed, one is sitting next to the door and the other one’s standing at the window, you should make it there in five steps. I can’t promise anyone about the bathroom, though. Bait is standing at the table, looking at his laptop. You’re clear to proceed to Phase 2.” – _“Copy that, Red Five. I’m going in.”_

From a certain point on, there wouldn’t be much more talk between them because things would be getting serious, they both knew that, but as of right now, they enjoyed their bickering. It felt almost like it had before Loki, the two of them against the world, flirting and sexually harassing and mocking each other over the comlink. Clint watched Natasha break into the penthouse suite, making sure no alarms would go off on her while she disabled the two private security guards and knocked the Congressman out cold. He loved to watch her fight. Two of those men were well trained, tall and strong and determined and yet they didn’t even get to lift their guns, she was between them so quickly, so ferociously and she just folded them together as if that was easier than breathing. “Five seconds. You’re getting slow.” – _“Don’t give me crap, Red Five. Tell me where to put ‘em.”_ – “Bathroom should be fine, that’s the only room from where he can’t get an angle on them.” 

While Clint was watching the adjoining rooftops and having an eye on the hotel’s security cameras and alarm systems, Natasha gagged, bound and hid the guards. Not exactly in slow motion, but they didn’t have much time, Clint knew that and he couldn’t help himself, he just HAD to open his big mouth and make Natasha aware of something she knew. Maybe just to annoy her a little bit and get a sexily angry answer… who knew, really?

“You realize we’re on a clock here, Red Three?” – _“Shut up. Whose ideas were these ridiculous code names, anyways?”_ – “George Lucas’.” – _“Never heard of him.”_  
He could hear her confusion and he grinned. Natasha and American pop culture… those never mixed well. And it was always a joy to confuse her with something she’d never heard of. Those were the very few occasions when Clint felt like he could actually teach her something she didn’t know yet. 

They had started to use a system of code words whenever on the com, starting their first long-term assignment together, because they both agreed that you never knew who was potentially listening in or recording what you were saying to get leverage. 

“Star Wars, Red Three. The x-wing pilots of the Rebellion have a red squadron.” – _“You’re such a nerd.”_

For most things, they just used different names, stuff they could even say in a normal conversation, on the phone while standing in Starbucks or while talking to a third party and having to pass on information only their partner would understand. Maria Hill was Rosewell. Fury was Slumdog – not that he’d appreciate it if he ever found out. Coulson had been Butterfly, just out of friendly mockery. He had never actively acknowledged if he understood their lingo when he listened in on their talk over the com line. But they had always suspected that he’d figured it out long ago. Coulson was smart and he’d been their handler for years. Normally, they’d just call each other with their actual codenames – ‘Black Widow’ and ‘Hawkeye’ – or, when on especially daring missions, diverse to ‘Pan’ and ‘Tink’ ( _Peter Pan_ was one of the first books Natasha had ever read in English and it was an allegory as good as any other, far enough from their real selves to be confusing to their enemies and close enough to still have some sentimental value – because admit it or not, they were both a little bit sentimental that way). This mission, however, had not been sanctioned by SHIELD. Officially, neither of them was here. If they got caught, they’d be branded rogue agents and what they were about to do was in violation of close to every protocol ever written. And in case this was a trap set out by Ross and his people (which was quite possible and they both were prepared for that specific scenario), they had needed something new, something they’d never called each other before. Hence ‘Red Three’ and ‘Red Five’. 

Their intel had come from ‘Rosewell’s back yard’. In translation that meant that Maria Hill had given it to them using a backdoor channel, illegally and unofficially, leaving it to Natasha and Clint how they decided to proceed – after all, they had never gotten to know this one, _wink wink_. One of their undercover agents had heard chatter. Nothing definite. Nothing concrete. But their mysterious archer was possibly headed for Chicago and there had been talk about an upcoming hit. Only one of Ross’s high ranking allies would be in Chicago this weekend. Clint and Natasha had their own backchannels, their own sources of intel and they were just _good_ at what they were doing. It wasn’t that hard to put themselves in the killer’s shoes, planning the murder like he would most likely do it. Tasha had done quite some assassinations back in her time. Clint was a specialist for archery. Between the two of them it hadn’t been hard to figure out when and where Ross’s most beloved congressman was at his most vulnerable, when their target might attack and how he’d try to do it. All they needed to do was intercept his most likely plans, forcing him out in the open. Granted, they were playing poker, but what was life without a little risk? If they managed to pull this off, they’d have the assassin in custody. Clint would be cleared, all charges dropped for now. This was the third possibility for an attack and their safest bet so far. It was, however, also the first one where they had to make actual contact with their bait. And that was bad because after this one, if it went south or they came up empty, they’d have to consider the hunt as failure and hope they’d get luckier with whatever chatter their friends at SHIELD intercepted next. 

It was all just guessing, really. Russian roulette. But there was too much at stake to just sit back and do nothing. 

Clint shook his head. _Nerd._ She’d never called him that one before. “And you’re getting slow. Or should I say _old_?” Natasha was clearing the penthouse of the signs of her struggle against the guards as fast she could, he watched her red curls dancing over her back, this time not over a camera but by simply turning his head and looking through the windows. _“One more dumb comment and I swear…”_ – “Sewing my mouth shut. Might take me a while, but I bet I’ll be finished until you finally manage to prepare the trap.” Mockery, bantering – it was their way of coping with the stress on a mission. They’d stop as soon as things got really serious, though, but as long as there was still room for some fun, why stick to boorish ‘Copy that’ and pure information? 

Finally, Tasha got close to ready, placing their bait on the bed, binding his hands to the bedposts with a silk scarf and shooting him up with a sedative she’d also put in the guards. She then prepared the blinds and herself, taking off her power suit and the battle dress she’d been wearing underneath and standing there in a ravishingly short, backless negligee. Bare feet. The congressman had a thing for redheads. Tasha’s presence wouldn’t be suspicious, as wouldn’t be the absence of his security guards. Obviously, he’d sent them out to have more privacy with his lady friend. 

Sadly, Clint couldn’t really appreciate his partner’s performance as she lay down beside the bait, drugging the man so that he wouldn’t wake up and screw up everything. As soon as she had breached the penthouse, he’d started watching the adjoining rooftops with a night scope. Natasha and he were in agreement that an attack would most likely follow in the early hours of the new day, when most of the city was fast asleep as opposed to the night life going on right now and the darkness still provided decent cover. They had made a point of being finished with phase two before midnight. 

Thankfully, no one wanted to bother a congressman in the penthouse more than once because of one guard falling asleep. This was the most luxurious hotel in Chicago, not a military compound, and that was just their luck. There were only seven more guards left, one of them at the reception desk, one of them in the video control room, three of them clearing the lower levels of the building and the remaining two trying to help their less fortunate comrades out of the elevator that Clint had crashed. 

Hawkeye kept an eye on them while he was waiting for whoever had committed the assassinations of Ross’s associates… well, maybe he was even waiting for himself losing his mind again, although he was more and more sure that he wasn’t _that_ crazy, not yet. He trusted Natasha’s instincts on this one. They were usually right. 

When the agents had been waiting for two hours, they proved to be right once more. “You’re up, Red Three,” Clint told his partner as soon as he made out the slim figure two roofs over. Good choice for a kill shot, he had to give it to the guy. Maybe even the perfect angle. That was exactly why Hawkeye hadn’t chosen that building. He didn’t want to scare the guy away by taking up his spot. The roof he was positioned on was in a slightly awkward angle from the hotel and it didn’t give him a clear shot at everything in the penthouse. It didn’t need to. After all, he wasn’t here to murder anyone. 

Natasha pushed herself up, starting her show for their target. She kissed the bait passionately, blocking the assassin’s view to the congressman, then she stood up and moved toward the window. “More the right, a little bit more… yeah, that’s his angle,” Hawkeye gave her directions and she followed them. The man hadn’t killed civilians before. He hadn’t even killed security guards when it would have been easier, taking them out in hand-to-hand combat instead. This entire operation was based on wild guesses, but Clint and Natasha were hoping they were right with this and Natasha was putting her entire trust in Clint. The enemy archer was keeping the headcount to the bare minimum. He wouldn’t shoot a prostitute just because she was momentarily blocking his view. And if he tried, well then Clint would have to be quicker than him. 

For the moment, their target had no clear shot at their bait. There was a sexy redhead blocking his angle, but he was waiting patiently – his first mistake. Natasha got closer to the window, pretending to look at the shimmering skyline, until she was blocking his view permanently by closing the blinds, before proceeding to the other glass fronts to do the same. Clint grinned. This was just going perfectly. Their enemy hadn’t been squeamish about entering a building before. He was task-oriented and he’d try to finish the job. Clint watched him pack up his gear and vanish from the roof, only to appear down in the street, crossing it and making his way to the hotel. 

“He’s coming on foot,” Clint informed Natasha. _“Just like you predicted,”_ she purred in his ear.  
“Yeah, well, why risk cuts all over your arms and some nasty bruises, rushing in blindly, if you can just as well walk. Less dramatic, far more safe and just as effective. Let’s hope I’m right about the rest, too. Mind opening the blinds for me, Red Three?” She complied and smiled at him even though she couldn’t possibly see him through the night, standing in a brightly lit room like that. 

He watched her dragging the congressman into the bathroom and change back into her battle dress and shoes. Every movement was purposeful and fast and it needed to be. “He’s right outside the door,” Clint informed Natasha who took a stance right next to said door while he was fastening a sliding hook around the wire and readying himself for the jump. 

The door opened, Natasha grabbed the perpetrator and threw him inside the room, kicking the door shut behind her and blocking the assassin’s exit route. And Clint jumped. 

It was almost like flying, the rush of adrenaline, the street racing by underneath him and then he let go of the hook in exactly the right moment, curling up in the air and protecting his face with his arms. _Oh man, this is gonna suck…_ he thought and then he met the window with far too much speed and broke through feet first and arms second, shards of breaking glass flying all around him, landing on the floor where he had to roll to break his fall, cutting his skin everywhere it made contact. The worst part was his shoulder, still not even halfway healed, screaming at him all the way over the street canyon and throwing stars into his view when he met the floor with it. 

He got back to his feet just in time to see Natasha throwing a punch which the other archer dodged and the guy flick-flacking away from Black Widow, pulling out a gun in order to break the melee fight and end it right there. Everything was happening in split seconds now, Clint rushing forward, attempting to hit their opponent square over the back, no matter that he was attacking from behind, the shattering glass had been an obvious warning and who was fighting fair anyways, this was open combat, no kindergarten. The other archer dropped to his knees and lashed out with his straight leg, forcing Clint to stop his hit because Natasha was following the man’s retreat and she almost ran into his fist and then Hawkeye lost footing and plunked to the floor back first, but he got up again straight away, rolling to his shoulders and jumping to his feet and there the guy was, fighting Natasha close range and managing to hit her in the stomach, sending her stumbling back and then Clint looked into the barrel of a gun and he grabbed it without thinking, all reflex, taking it away from the man and pointing it right between his eyes… and then he froze because he couldn’t believe it, he just couldn’t, and the man ripped the gun out of his hands and rolled over and stopped right behind the armchair, aiming at Clint and freezing, too, disbelief and hurt and fear in his eyes and at that moment Natasha had her CZ out and her bullet ripped through their opponent’s right shoulder and threw him to the ground just as Clint yelled out “NO!” and tried to throw himself between them. Split seconds. They made so much difference. 

_“NO!” Clint broke to his knees, incredulously staring at the arrow shaft sticking out of his victim’s chest and then he just pressed his hands on the wound,_ do something, Barton _, he needed to do something, but what, what could he do, he was just a kid and there was so much blood, oh God, so much blood seeping out between his trembling fingers and he pleaded, he begged, “No, no, please don’t be dead, don’t die on me, don’t leave me, please don’t, come back to me… Stay with me, I’m here now, stay with me, don’t do this, please don’t…”_

_“He’s done for”, Trick Shot explained sympathetically, squatting down next to him and giving Clint’s shoulder a friendly squeeze while he pulled out a knife, watching the injured young man gasping for air, his breath bubbling with blood pearls on his lips. “I can speed it up for him if you want,” the elder archer told his apprentice and lurked in a little closer._  
 _Clint didn’t even need to think, this was one reflex he had perfected before he even went to school, one basic instinct he shared with the bleeding person in front of him, a person he had just shot, a person dying in a pool of red. He shoved Trick Shot back, crouching over the body on the floor like a wild animal protecting its young. “Don’t touch him! Don’t you DARE touch him!”_  
 _He could see the dismay on his mentor’s face. “Leave him to bleed out then, have it your way, Hawkeye. Just get the hell moving. We can’t stick around.” As if to make his points, blue lights were flashing through the mansion’s windows, sirens were howling through the night and two stories down a front door was being breached. Gunshots. A lot of them._

_Marko’s men didn’t take kindly to cops invading their land. Cops didn’t like to be shot at and no matter why they were coming for Marko right now, in this instance, they were coming quickly. And they’d find the two intruders and take them in with the rest of the criminal scum living here because they, too, were felons. Trick Shot knew it, Hawkeye knew it._

_But Hawkeye wouldn’t move. Stubbornly, he pressed his hands on the other man’s chest, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to reverse the damage he had inflicted and – failing. “He’s not gonna make it Clint, damnit, now COME WITH ME!” Trick Shot stood up, anger flashing in his eyes as he grabbed Clint’s upper arm, trying to drag him out if he had to. “I’m not going to jail because you get a little squeamish. Now MOVE!” And just like that, they were fighting, Clint trying to shake the older, stronger man off. He was nineteen and fast and dainty, but Trick Shot had trained him, Trick Shot had experience and Trick Shot wasn’t sobbing miserably._

_Trick Shot didn’t have his own brother’s blood all over his hands._

_As soon as he had rid himself of his mentor’s clutch, the young archer was at Barney’s side again, and he thought he saw a flicker of life in his brother’s eyes as his lids fluttered up, feverishly. “Barney, don’t, don’t die on me…” He pleaded, his father had taught him that pleading would never work, the bullies at school had taught him too and Swordsman had done the same thing in the end, but Clint begged nevertheless, pleaded, bargained with a dying man because he couldn’t just lose him, couldn’t just watch him bleed out and leave him again, not again, please… no…_

_And then he heard the bowstring tightening and he heard his mentor’s calm, soft voice that had instructed him so many times, and it was cold and unrelenting. “Last chance, boy. I’m sorry for your loss, but we don’t have time to discuss this. You have a choice. Come with me right now, or go with him. I’m not leaving you to blabber to the coppers. Not a chance.” Barton didn’t even have to answer. The look in his eyes was answer enough, that stubborn, hurt glance. He had let Barney leave once without him and he had been regretting it for almost three years. He wouldn’t be so craven again, he was about to stand his ground._  
 _There were steps on the staircase, steps in the hallway right before their door._

_There was the deadly song of the bow, but Clint saw what Trick Shot was up to, how he planned on forcing Clint to come with him, by putting an arrow through Barney’s eye socket, so he jerked up and he became a body shield for the other kid, the arrow piercing right through his abdomen. Slumping down and breaking the shaft off in his fall, he forced himself back up because he knew that now Trick Shot had to kill him, no way he’d escape with a wound like that, but it wasn’t fatal, not this one, and Trick Shot couldn’t afford Hawkeye to betray him and talk to the police._

_There was a knife and there were hands, there were blows and struggle and a teenager fighting for his life, fighting for his brother’s life with all he had and then there was a slashing movement and his belly opened up and he slumped down and someone barged in the room and Trick Shot dove out of the window they’d broken in through, and there were people shouting and lights flashing and Clint didn’t even are anymore because all was cold and dark and he knew, he needed to crawl over the floor, he needed to get back to Barney, he needed to be with his brother…_

_And then it went dark and he woke up what felt like hours later, and Barney was gone and his intestines were dangling out of his belly and there was pain, so much pain and so much cold and then there was someone shouting “Hey, this one’s still alive!” and there were hands heaving him on a stretcher and he blacked out again and woke up in the hospital and when he realized the cops had put a guard in front of his door, he slipped out of the window and climbed down to the street and made it three blocks before he’d ripped all of his stitches and needed to crawl into a Pakistani family’s backyard and beg them to help him… and he was more lucky than anything because they were here illegally and they really didn’t like the cops but they were also too nice and too normal to let him just rot right there. So they helped him, got him better somehow, found a friend who’d studied some medicine back in their country and was cleaning floors in this country. Someone who patched Clint up, no questions asked._

He had looked for his brother. When he finally realized that he, in fact, lived despite the odds, he started looking for Barney. They had learned in the same hard school, Barney had just three years more experience in taking a beating. If Clint could fight, if Clint could survive, Barney could too. That was only logical, or so he thought. It was this little truth he told himself for weeks to come, that Barney was a fighter, a survivor, even more so than him and that he would surely have found a way. Maybe Marko’s men had taken care of their own, patching him up somewhere. Clint never questioned why Barney wouldn’t look for him – he’d shot him. He had almost killed Barney. And the mobsters had surely thought Clint dead, just like the cops had at first. He must have looked dead, his belly slashed open and everything. That was why they hadn’t taken him, too, and that was why Barney maybe didn’t even know Clint had made it, too. 

But life didn’t work that way. Life wasn’t _fair_. And pleading never worked, not even when you were pleading a dying man to not leave you alone. 

_Phil Coulson stayed in the car and let Clint go to the graveyard on his own. He was a good man, that one, granting his new recruit this good-bye even though SHIELD considered him a high flight risk. Clint later didn’t know how long he’d stood there, looking down at his brother’s grave that had been there for weeks while he was still recovering and then hoping he might find Barney somewhere, if only he took down enough underground organisations, looking for him._

He was covering up the bullet wound with his bare hands and he was shouting, he didn’t even know what he was shouting, and there was blood seeping through his fingers, but he didn’t plead, not this time, he just feverishly tried to stop it, stop Barney from dying again because –  
Barney was alive. 

Barney was alive. 

Barney… 

Barney was the archer. Clint felt his body betraying him, shutting down, he couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop it, until he heard a familiar voice and felt Natasha’s hand on his still aching shoulder and then he felt her slap him, hard, and his eyes snapped away from Barney who was lying there, teeth clenched and shoulder bleeding and eyes just as shocked as Clint’s. He looked at Natasha who didn’t understand, how could she, but she was saying something to him and then she was _shouting_ at him because he was probably freaking her out right now, all pale and numb and without another word, just his lips trembling. He couldn’t laugh. He couldn’t cry. He couldn’t get a grasp on what she was saying, and then she hit him again and suddenly he realized what was happening. 

_Barney is alive._

__

  
**III**

Peninsula Hotel, Chicago | September 9, 2013

_His knees met the floor with a brutal shock, his arm twisted behind his back by the gorilla who hadn’t left his side ever since they entered the underground compound. The only thing he could see was a pair of pinstripe trousers, coming towards him through the dimly lit room. This, right here, was almost too cliché. Dark cellar room, looked like part of a factory with its concrete floor, except for the chains he’d seen dangling from the ceiling when they got in. He tried to look up, but the twist at his arm just got more painful. The man in the pinstripe suit stepped closer, grabbing Barney’s chin and pulling it up although it_ hurt _to move against the iron fists that held his entire body in place by his arm._  
 _And then he saw the man’s face for the first time. Only that there wasn’t much of a face left to look at. It shook him down to the core, a face that would haunt his nightmares ever since that moment, so distorted, so scarred that it was close to unrecognizable. The forehead was the least disturbing feature, bubbly and red and brown. No eyebrows, whatever accident this man had been in, God hadn’t been so merciful to leave him those two streaks of facial hair to cover up at least a part of the hell that was left of his face. The cheeks were almost gone, it seemed a miracle they weren’t just black holes at the sides of his head, thinned down and creased up as they were. There was a mouth; there were even lips, deformed with bubbles that looked like massive warts. There was a stump of a nose, two large slits and then a bulgy knobble, more the form of a golf ball than that of an actual nose._  
 _But it wasn’t just the cruel deformity that made this face so dark, so haunting, so nightmarish – it was something in his eyes, a cold, a relentlessness and mercilessness and pure out evilness that cut directly through Barney’s stomach, filling his entire body with ice and the wish that he would just die right here, right now, instead of having to talk with this monster._

_The eyes took in his every expression, his pure horror, and they turned to slits like those of a cat, the difference being that with cats, eyes turning to slit meant content and relaxation and an offering of peace. With this man, there was anger and hate and the promise of punishment just before the man’s backhand hit Barney square over the face, ripping his lip with one of the massive rings he was carrying. Barton’s head was thrown to the side by that slap, but he tried to stay calm._ Don’t give him the satisfaction. He’s not your first monster and he won’t be your last. Don’t let him see that he got to you with his ugly… whatever-that-is, and don’t show him that you’re shitting your pants. Hell, Barton, stop shitting your pants. Stop being a little girl. You can do this. You have to. You will survive because that’s what you’re good at, you will survive and go back there and you’ll find Clint. You’re a survivor. Fighter’s blood. Get back up and make ‘em regret they ever tried to hit you. Even if they throw you back down, again and again and again, you can still take ‘em because you have done so all your life. You get back up and you fight on. You’re not allowed to give up and you’re not allowed to be fucking weak.

_“God, you’re ugly.” Barney knew that it was a bad choice to be cheeky right now and he knew this was normally his little brother’s move, reckless and STUPID, but they weren’t that different in a way. He spit the blood that ran from his lip to the side, looking back up. Now, he wasn’t shocked any more, he braced himself for the visage that was about to rip through his every feeling of security. He could take that. It was just an ugly face, worse for the guy who had to look like that than for his prisoner, right?_  
 _“And you seem to be anything but smart.” The cold brown eyes looked at him, taking him in. Barney felt exposed and he hated that. But he stayed calm and restrained as well as he could under the circumstances. He was little more than a kid himself at twenty-two years, but he wasn’t a coward. He had to get out of here. He didn’t care what it took. He knew his little brother was out there, he was probably in prison by now. But he was alive. Barney was sure because Clint was a crazy little son-of-a-bitch and he was strong, he was a fighter, he’d fought even with an arrow in his stomach and put his elder brother to shame for just lying there, passing out after taking one to the chest. How long ago had that been? Weeks? Months? It didn’t matter. Clint still lived. That was the hope Barney had been clinging to by his very fingernails, that was everything that still mattered to him. Clint was out there. He had to be._

_And Barney would get out and he would find him and they’d be together again. No matter what it took. No matter what_ he _had to take. Clint was his responsibility. He should never have left him in the first place. That had been stupid. He’d given Clint an ultimatum, ‘meet me at the bus station at three p.m. if you decide you wanna come with me after all, otherwise… I’ll be gone’ – and Clint had called his bluff. Only that it hadn’t been a bluff, Barney had gone away, joined the military without looking back. He hated himself for that now. Back out there, in war, he had been glad Clint wasn’t with him. Clint didn’t have to see what happened to him, what he became, a killer, a murderer, a soldier. Clint didn’t have to change with him._  
 _But Clint hadn’t been so lucky, either. He was a killer nevertheless, a criminal, Barney had seen it and he knew it was HIS fault. He had left his little brother with these people, with Trick Shot and all the other scumbags from the carnival and he hadn’t tried hard enough to make him come with him._

_He had left Clint behind and Clint, unprotected for the first time in his life, had fallen. That was on him. That would always be on him._

_“But you’re also brave.” The voice pulled him back to this very moment, dragging his mind into the present. Concrete floor under his knees. Arm twisted. Monster’s face inches away from his own, bad breath in his nostrils and cold, cold brown eyes staring him down. How could brown eyes be so cold? Brown eyes were supposed to be nice. Cuddly. Warm._  
 _These weren’t. They were like metal. They were like… he couldn’t even say. But they sent shivers down his spine._

_“I like that,” the voice talked on and a thumb swept over Barney’s lips, smearing his blood all over his mouth, burning in the wound but also giving him the feeling of helplessness. What was happening here? This wasn’t torture, nowhere near it. It hurt, but not that bad. It was a strange gesture. Dominant, but also playful and almost… fond. He didn’t like it. Not one bit._  
 _“You’re a precious one, aren’t you? Maybe Chisholm wasn’t so wrong after all. Maybe you could still be of use to me. Would you like that, Barton? Would you like to serve me?”_  
 _Barney felt anger rise inside him. How dumb did he look? “Go to hell.”_  
 _“Oh, one day, maybe. But I’ll make sure to send you there first. You see, Trick Shot – or Chisholm, whichever sounds better to you, I really don’t care – had one job to do for me. One. He was supposed to train me a skilled assassin. The best. I paid him half up front, handsomely, when he told me he finally had found him, the best pupil he’d ever had. Did he deliver on his word, however? No. Instead of this ‘Hawkeye’, he brought me you. At first, I didn’t think I’d have any use for you at all, because he also told me his pupil had perished. But I’m a sentimentalist. I don’t like bad investments and I don’t like wasting resources, but I like a good gamble and I like the notion that every failure can be turned around if you take the right angle. So I decided to have my men patch you up and put your dog tags on the body of some dead screw-up. They were very thorough in destroying every last bit of evidence, even switched your dental records so that the police would buy your death. You get a completely fresh new start, nobody will even care looking for you. You’re welcome, by the way.”_

It’s a lie. Don’t buy in on that. He’s playing you. They’re still searching. Your team with the FBI. Donovan and Sikes and Yen. They won’t give up on you that easily. Especially Yen. She told you, she’d have your back. She’s a great handler. She won’t buy this, not for one second, they do know what you look like. They’ll come for you. They are still searching. _“Nobody’s coming for you.” The face came even closer to Barney’s and he could smell it now, the soft, sweet odour of decay and death. His stomach twisted as cold fingers touched his cheek, finding their way into his hair, soothing, lovingly almost, and then, suddenly, there was a hard pull as the monster’s hand grabbed Barney’s longish brown curls and ripped his head back._  
 _“And you don’t even know the best part yet. Your brother is still alive after all, isn’t that just too Shakespearean to be true? Tough boy. I lost hope there for a second after I found out he’d been taken by the police and had escaped from the hospital. Never a good idea to climb down a building with stitches across your entire stomach. But I made sure that the Pakistani family that took him in had a good doctor come over. Not only is he fine, he’s out there looking for you. Seems he didn’t find out about your alleged demise yet.”_

_Barney felt a wave of hope come over him, but then, his bones went cold. Why tell him this? Why give him this hope, if not to torment him further?_

_“Sweet boy, your brother. So naïve. Up to this point, he’s been stumbling through the dark, but he’s actually getting closer to you. He even infiltrated one of my casinos last night. We weren’t ready for him, but next time, we will be. He’s not half as clever as he thinks he is. Two or three more nights and I’ll have myself a complete set of Bartons: My little archer and the bigger oaf of a brother who was so nice to act as bait and as leverage at the same time. Do you think he will agree to work for me right away, or will I have to hurt you first to show him I mean serious business? Hmm… I hope it’s the latter. I’d really like that. Tell me, how does it feel, knowing you let him down again? You must have thoughts on this. You always were the smarter one. Trick Shot told me your brother was ready to die for you. Shouldn’t be too hard to persuade him to kill for you, then. Killing is so much easier than dying, after all.”_

_“No!” Barney didn’t even know what he was objecting to, but the word left his mouth before he could stop himself and he knew then that the monster, never mind his name, had won because yes, he had found Barney’s one weakness. The biggest weakness of them all. In the end, it was shamefully simple to manipulate him. “No, don’t… He won’t do it. He can’t.” Oh, but that wasn’t true, now, was it? Clint had shot a man fair and square in the chest. He had freaked out when he saw it was Barney, but he had been ready to kill a stranger. He would be ready to do it again, for the rest of his life if he had to. He’d become a slave as long as it helped keep his brother alive and unharmed._

_They were so easy. They were so pathetically weak when they were used against each other._

_The monster just laughed. “You don’t even believe that yourself, now, do you? But by all means, carry on. I enjoy cute stubborn boys quite a lot. Tell me how your noble little brother will rather watch you being tortured than taking a few lives that mean nothing to him.”_  
Barney grit his teeth. “I won’t let you do this. I won’t. You can’t…”  
 _“And again, you are deceiving yourself. How exactly do you plan on making me stop, a helpless little FBI-agent, all on his own? You’re my prisoner. If it weren’t so much FUN watching your right now, I wouldn’t even make the effort of telling you about my plans.”_  
 _“He’ll be reluctant.” Barney spoke hastily now, his mind racing. “He’ll fight you every step of the way, always trying to get me out, trying to outsmart you. He might succeed or he might fail, but either way, he’ll be more of a nuisance than of help to you. He can be an absolute pain in the ass. I know it better than anyone, I grew up with him.”_  
 _“You_ raised _him, according to some of my employees. But trust me… I’ll find a way to control your little brother. I’m not you. I’m not held back by love or memories of a father beating the two of you.” He was smiling. It was cruel, but that distorted face was still capable of a smile. A dark, twisted smile. This was all a game. But Barney wasn’t done playing. He got back up, figuratively, and shot out his offer. “I’ll take his place.” – “You can’t do that. I have talked to Trick Shot and he told me everything. You’re not an archer. You’re not even an acrobat, not the way your brother is.” – “I’m better.” Barney’s eyes glowed desperately. “I’m a soldier. A trained undercover agent. I’ve actually KILLED people. I can do it, I know I can. I can do it for you. I can learn the rest. I’m a quick study.”_

_The monster stepped back a little bit, looking him over. “And why would I want a beginner, second-rate quality, when I can have the real deal? Face it, Barton: You’re nothing compared to the talent of little Hawkeye. I almost feel sorry for you. So pathetic in your miserable attempt to shield him from every bad thing in the world, and failing ever since he came to this earth. What have you ever been able to defend him from? Your father beat him just as he beat you. You took away his one chance of having a normal childhood, a normal family, because you were so selfish you just had to keep him at your side. You brought him to the carnival, you messed him up leaving him to Swordsman and Trick Shot. You couldn’t even make him go to school and get his GED. And then you wanted to drag him to war because you couldn’t bear the thought of him growing attached to Trick Shot and losing your influence over him. Face it: You’re not his guardian. You’ve always been the stone that dragged him down and now, you’ve become the metal ball at the end of the chain at his ankle shackle.”_

_“Wouldn’t you rather have a volunteer than someone who’s fighting you all the way?” Barney was desperate. He didn’t even notice how he was being manipulated, how they turned it around until the offer was his, until he made it his choice to become their playing piece._  
 _“I’ll work for you. I’ll do anything you want me to, all your wet work. I’ll do that as long as you leave him alone. Can’t be that hard to shake him off, right? Just show him I’m dead, he’ll stop looking for me. I’ll train with Trick Shot and I’ll be a good soldier. It might not be the best deal for this very moment but on the long run this’ll be the better investment on your part. You know it will.”_

_“Let go of him.” The monster smiled, again. It creeped Barney out on end. “Alright. We’ll give it a shot – or rather, quite a bunch of shots.” He chuckled. “You got yourself a deal, Barton, but just so we’re clear: You make one move I don’t like, one little turn I don’t approve of, you make as much as a phone call I didn’t order you to make, I’ll pull your chain and you know whose throat I’ll wind it around before that. Won’t be you who suffers if you betray me.”_

_Barney nodded. He knew that. After all, as the man he would later come to know as ‘Baron Zemo’ had put it, he had ‘always been the smart one’._

 

_“This is your bow now.” His master laid the weapon in his hands, clapping him on the shoulder ever so slightly. It was a proud gesture, but Barney would never forget the many, many times the elder man had sworn and cursed and shouted at him that he would never, ever be half the archer his brother had been, or half the athlete. He still wasn’t happy with Barney, he knew that, but he had probably stopped being unhappy. Barney wasn’t his best pupil and he never would be, he never would be the masterpiece Hawkeye had been. But he was a close second. A very, very close second. He was proud of that although he knew he shouldn’t be, it was wrong to be proud of acquiring yet another skill that would make him a better assassin and therefore by definition a worse human being. If you put enough energy and time in a certain task, however, at some point you started to care for it. You didn’t have to like it in order to get ambitious about it._

_“Thank you, Trick Shot.” Barney bowed his head slightly, touching the cold handle, trying out the string. A good bow. A really good bow. A master’s weapon. “That’s also your name now,” Chisholm said and he almost smiled at it. “After tonight, I’m retiring. You’ve proven yourself more than once. Your training is finished, at least your training at my hands.” Barney looked at him, speechless. He’d never seen himself as Trick Shot’s replacement, as his successor, but now it seemed that he had been all along. The new Trick Shot._

_He wasn’t happy about it, even though he felt a wave of pride. He was mainly sad because this was yet another milestone to show him how far he’d strayed from everything he had once been, everything that made him Barney Barton, FBI-agent and bigger brother. He was now an archer, an assassin, a killer. He was the very monster he had tried to take down. But he could never stop, he could never leave. By now, Baron Zemo knew him far too well. He had leverage on Barney, so much leverage… he knew exactly where to take him, which buttons to push. And Barney was like a nice horse, perfectly broken in, tamed. He did what he was supposed to do and even though he hated every second of it, there were parts he actually had started to like over the years. It wasn’t so bad. He hurt people, yes. He killed them. But he had a good life, in a way. He wasn’t tortured or assaulted or even emotionally abused. He had a sort of family here, twisted and dark, but they looked out for each other. In a way. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t have to for it to work._

 

His shoulder burnt like fire. Clint’s eyes burning down on him were worse, however. That shock. That uncertainty. That _pain_. He could take it all, he had always known he could take all, could take any punishment… but that expression in his little brother’s eyes was worse. It made him hot and ashamed and angry on the inside because it wasn’t fair, he saw betrayal and a lack of understanding and he felt ashamed because Clint had to see him like this. He saw the eyes of someone who just lost their belief in their greatest idol, finding out that the one person they had believed to be a genuine hero was, in fact, just another crook, the worst deceiver of them all, and it made him wish for a gun to blow his fucking brains out because he couldn’t take _that_ , he couldn’t take the disappointment and the loss of faith, not from Clint.

Still, they were just staring at each other, neither of them paying attention to the red-haired woman until she slapped Clint and Barney felt a sensation as if she’d hit him instead. And Clint blinked at her, dumbfounded. This would have been the perfect moment to make a run for it. The woman was distracted, watching Clint going into shock. And Clint – was going into shock.  
Nobody was guarding the prisoner for a moment.  
But Barney couldn’t bring himself to moving but one muscle. His world was shattering right in front of him. He’d had one surveillance picture of Clint standing at ‘his’ grave, some years old, proof of life that Zemo had organized when Barney had wanted to see some. He’d kept it and put it up next to his bed and he’d wake up and go to sleep looking at it, looking at that broken, empty expression on Clint’s face. He had read so many things into that expression over the years. Pain and sorrow and loss, but when he learned that Clint had joined a secret agency, he had suddenly also been able to see the pride, the wish to live up to what Clint perceived to be his, Barney’s, example. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but Clint had turned his life around after he had found out Barney was ‘dead’. Maybe he wanted to make up for his past transgressions, make amends, maybe he just wanted to be more like he thought his brother would have wanted him to be. Barney was never sure but whatever explanation there was, it gave him strength. The kid was doing fine, more or less. He was living a better life now, not exactly the normal life Barney would have wanted for him, but he was finally on the right side. Doing good. That was worth any sacrifice.

Up to now.

Barney could see it all fall down, the confidence and the faith and the knowledge of right and wrong, as if he’d ripped it from his little brother and tossed it aside. Clint had that look he’d always had, even as a kid, whenever someone had taken his trust and stomped on it. 

“Clint, snap out of it.” The redhead was talking, again or still, he wasn’t sure, but she had a certain strain in her voice that probably wasn’t there usually. Clint looked back at her, but even though he clearly knew where he was and who he was with, by now, he still seemed to be dumbfounded. “Okay, I’ve had enough of this,” the woman stated calmly. And then, suddenly, Barney felt a tug at his uninjured upper arm as she grabbed him and handcuffed him almost violently and forced him up with impossible strength, dragging him over to the bed and throwing him on it, forcing his hands up over his head and cuffing him to the headboard. He just let her. There was no point in running or fighting, was there? He groaned when she moved his injured shoulder but other than that, he just looked at her, took her in. She was easily the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and he’d been around his fair share of beauties by now. Coldly glistening green eyes, a complexion that seemed to turn to porcelain now that she was angry and red hair, so dark it shouldn’t even be… but it was real. He could tell, even if he’d never seen red hair quite like that in nature, dancing around her shoulders with every step and so extremely soft, with a deep bloody shimmer on every curl, that he felt compelled to touch it. Yeah, that was her real hair colour. God, he’d always had had a thing for the redheads, but this one looked surreal. Deadly, stunning and mysterious in a way he couldn’t even explain, he just had an overwhelming urge to touch her face to see if she was real.

Well, she was real because that death-grip on his arm and the hard hands on his wrists were painfully purposeful and strong and they put him in a position that he would otherwise only have imagined if she undressed him first as part of the best dream he’d had in years. “Easy,” he told her and couldn’t help himself to change his painful grimace into a bold grin, leering up at her. “You break it, you bought it, sweetheart.”  
He managed to push himself up, somehow, getting at least in a halfway upright position.  
“Shut up,” she said and he thought he heard the hint of an accent there. European, maybe. She clearly wasn’t a born American. Interesting. She started patting him down, thoroughly and still insanely quickly. Girl had serious skill, not just combat-wise. Crap.

She found every last one of his hidden weapons. Every single one. And she took them and laid them on a table just outside of his reach, looking them over scrutinizingly and then shrugging as if she wanted to say ‘Seriously? That’s all? Disappointing.’ _Bitch._

“You have an outfit that goes with that attitude, too?” He couldn’t believe he had believed that prostitute-thing for one second before. Crap. She was clearly too classy to be a prostitute, no matter how daring her negligee had been or how transparent. He didn’t even know why, but he was already trying to get on her bad side, flirtatiously and condescendingly pushing the buttons he hoped were there. Female agent, she probably didn’t respond too well to be treated like a sex object, like most females wouldn’t. “You know, judging by your previous – actually damn hot – nothing you were wearing there – I figured you’d be rather the submissive type than the one calling the shots. Well, obviously you’re adaptable. But you wanna play the dominatrix-card here, you better dress up in some black leather and get yourself a whip, sexy. You’d probably pull that off far more convincing than your pseudo-war-look you’ve got going on there.”

He saw the anger in her eyes, but this time, it was Clint who said something, stepping up beside her. “Hey, don’t talk to her like that.” His voice was slightly trembling, only audible for those who knew the blond Barton brother well enough to tell the difference between angry and shaken.

“Oh.” Barney lifted up his brows. In his brain, he was trying to make up a plan, a solid plan, right away. He couldn’t tell Clint the truth. No. No way. But he would obviously have to tell them _something_. He had to keep them occupied long enough until he knew how to get away and out of this without endangering the person who most depended on him. Zemo wouldn’t care for explanations; he had made that perfectly clear before when he punished other screw-ups in his organization. He didn’t take kindly to being let down. And Barney knew, every one of his mistakes wouldn’t cost _him_ , but someone very close to him instead.

“Oooooh, wow, Crumbs. I’m impressed. Please tell me you hit _that_ and aren’t just mooning over her little ass.” He looked over the female agent again, making sure he’d linger his gaze at the right parts for a second more than could be comfortable for her.  
“Shut up.” The redhead repeated herself, but her tone had changed. It was calmer now, soft. Not sweet, but _soft_ on the verge to kind. He didn’t know why, but it made him tenser than the voice she’d used before. Maybe because it was so contradictory. She should have shouted at him or flipped out or shouted at Clint, but she was calm. Deadly calm. And then she just turned away from him, turning him her back as if he were completely irrelevant, and took Clint’s elbow and dragged him away from the bed, stopping next to the table with all of Barney’s weapons, talking to him in a hushed voice. Barney tried not to look as though he were staring at them, but he tried his best to read their lips. Clint was far, far easier than the redhead. ‘He’s my brother.’ There were looks between them, gazes, he couldn’t figure them out, but whatever it was they were communicating, there was some sort of fight and the redhead lost it. “I don’t believe this,” she hissed loud enough for Barney to overhear it. “You can’t be fucking SERIOUS.”

“I am, actually,” Clint said and they were still looking at each other strangely, and then Clint grabbed Barney’s gun from the table and the woman lifted up her hands, slowly, while he held her at gunpoint. “He’s not who you think he is,” the redhead claimed and Clint shook his head. “I’ll find that out for myself.”  
“Don’t be STUPID, damn it, Barton!” There was more, in her eyes, but she didn’t speak it out loud. Was he just imagining this, or were those two close to telepathic? No, surely not. They were just really, really bad at expressing their thoughts verbally so they just stared at each other all the time. Yeah, that must be it.

Then, the woman shrugged and stepped back and sat down in the armchair. “Alright. Okay. Have it your way. You got ten minutes, not a second more.”

Clint nodded at her and Barney was close to sure that there was a ‘thank you’ in his eyes as he put the gun back down. And the woman just glared back for a second, before she turned all her attention to her fingernails as if she were ignoring them both now completely.

“So,” Clint eyed one of the chairs as if he was thinking about using it, then he just stood there, awkwardly silent, fidgeting and staring at his elder brother. What was he thinking? What was going on in that funny blond head of his? Couldn’t be good. This was hell on him and Barney hated that he had to put him through that. But he couldn’t just tell Clint everything. Especially not with that woman over there, who was eyeing her fingernails like Shere Khan would have looked at his claws, so openly bored it verged on villainy. 

Silence. Really, really uncomfortable silence. “So,” Barney answered, more calmly than he was feeling.  
“You’re alive,” Clint said. It wasn’t a question and Barney wasn’t sure what to answer to that until he found his cynicism. “Disappointed?”  
Clint flinched as though he’d hit him. But he didn’t say anything. Why didn’t he say anything? Barney felt a wave of guilt. He couldn’t imagine what it must have felt like for Clint, losing him. That had probably been tough, right? It had been tough on him, too, not being allowed to tell Clint he was still alive. God, they were so screwed up.  
“Why?”  
That was all he asked. _Why_. The one question he had every right to, the one question that was crucial at this point and also the one question Barney couldn’t answer, not like that.  
So he lied. “What do you mean, why? You fucking little bastard tried to kill me! You were ready to off me, your own brother! What did you think, I’d come running back to you after that? That I wouldn’t do anything in my power to get rid of you once and for all?” He felt his own lies tear him up on the inside just as he forced all of the anger he had been carrying around with him, switched it over to Clint, blamed him for something he was completely innocent of. And while he watched Clint break even more, right on his spot, he could see that his little brother had heard those words before because he’d told them to himself. Barney wanted to explain it, make it okay, apologize. He wanted it so badly and yet he knew he had no choice and then he saw the hate and the anger flash up in Clint’s face and it was more than he could bear, but within seconds, out of nowhere, the woman was standing in front of her partner and grabbing his arm and then his chin, forcing him to look at her. “Clint. Clint! He’s lying. Don’t let it get to you. He didn’t mean that, look at him, really look. He didn’t.” She spoke calmly and silently, but he could still hear her and he had a slight suspicion that that was because she _wanted_ him to hear. She looked at him, took in his reactions. Just like Clint. And then there was calm with just a hinge of pain in Clint’s eyes and a triumphant little smile in the woman’s dashing green eyes.

Shit. Shit, she was good at this stuff. Who the fuck was she?!

And then he realized that the smile hadn’t been for him. It had been for Clint and Clint seemed to understand whatever message she gave him with it, he just shook his head but he put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, too, before he started pacing, up and down, in front of Barney’s bed. “Okay, so you didn’t keep this revelation from me because you hated and blamed me.” The voice was still shaky. Barney hated it like that. He looked at the red-haired woman and thought he saw some sort of dismay. _She hates it too,_ he realized. He wasn’t sure why, but that helped. She cared. For some reason, she cared for Clint. Maybe they really were a couple, maybe she was just another authority figure he had chosen for himself, but she didn’t push him around quite as much as she could have. She tolerated his dumbass decisions or at least she pretended to. Interesting.

“But I didn’t mean…” Clint stopped dead and turned to face Barney. “I didn’t mean that. I care why you didn’t tell me but that’s not what I… What happened to you, Barney?” – “What would you like to hear, little brother?” Barney closed his eyes, exhausted for a moment. “That life screwed me over and I didn’t have a fucking choice?” It wasn’t as easy as that. He’d always had a choice – that was the whole point: him or Clint. And he’d chosen the way he had always chosen ever since they were kids. Clint. It had always been his little brother, someone he felt responsible for, someone he had to protect by any means necessary. 

“Okay, enough with the family reunion,” the woman put her bib in. “I think we all know what’s happening next.” It was almost brutal how kindly she spoke while she stepped up to Clint, touching his shoulder, before she turned to Barney and shot him an icy glance. “You will tell us who paid you and then we’re going to take you in for processing.” She turned back to Clint. “Your name will be cleared of all charges because we caught the sniper, and everything else requiring therapy can be worked through later. We can make him a good deal. Find him some good lawyers. That’s the best shot he’s got right now. Cooperation with us, no special treatment, no obvious favours surrounding his arrest. We have to keep this one clean and wrap it up nicely, that’s how we minimize damage and you know it.”  
“No.” Clint pushed his chin forward stubbornly. “We’re not taking him in. We take ‘im in, he goes to prison for a very long time. Maybe forever. We’re not doing that.”  
The woman looked so angry, Barney was surprised she didn’t his at his little brother like a cat who’d been stomped on the tail. “Are you for real, Barton? You’re ready to throw away EVERYTHING, your entire life, for a criminal?”  
“Not for a criminal,” the younger archer replied, stepping back from her and lifting up the gun again, pointing it right between her eyes. “I don’t wanna do this, you know that. I don’t. But I will. He’s my brother:”

Foxy, as Barney decided to call her in his head, grit her teeth and narrowed her eyes, lifting her hands up and stepping back although the thought of attacking was so clearly written all over her face that Barney expected her to tackle Clint at any given moment. “Put that barrel out of my face or I swear to you, I’m going to lose my patience, Clint,” she said and her partner nodded, taking it down once more. But he kept the gun in his hand and he positioned himself so that he could look at the redhead at any time. And that in itself was very telling, if they’d had asked for Barney’s opinion.

“So, what’s your move, Crumbs? You gonna what, just let me run off into the night?” Barney lifted his eyebrows. “‘Cause not even you can’t be that stupid.” – “Well, I’m not,” Clint answered quietly. “You’re gonna answer some questions. For example, you’re gonna tell me who paid you for this job exactly. You’ll give me your word that you’re telling me the truth, right to my face, and if I believe you, you can go and I’ll tell our bosses that we didn’t get a good enough look on you to know for sure who you are.” His eyes pierced Foxy, before she could say something. “That’ll be just as well as taking him in, Tash. It’s not just me who saw him, _you_ saw him and me at the same time. We’re gonna work the rest out eventually.” 

She nodded. Barney saw how much she hated this, but for some reason, she was ready to jeopardize the entire mission on her partner’s whim. He felt a rush of envy and he knew that wasn’t fair. It was good that Clint had someone like that in his life. Someone who looked out for him, who believed in him and trusted him and whom he trusted. More or less at least. They were a peculiar couple, but somehow, they seemed to work.

And strangely, the trust was infectious. “Okay,” Barney heard himself say. “Okay. I trust you. I’ll answer your questions and you’ll let me go.” This way, he could still protect the person so close to him, he could still be there for them and that was all he needed. The woman looked at him again, but she didn’t say anything. Just this long, hard look. She still didn’t trust him. He could tell. He would have wished for her to not be here. “Under one condition.” He lifted his eyebrows at her, daringly. “For every question I answer, one of you has to answer one of mine. That’s my price.”

Foxy jumped to her feet and Clint thrust the gun back up, pointing it at her. “You little scumbag, you’re nowhere near the right to –”  
“Okay.” Clint nodded again and then the two agents looked at each other, another duel of stares. And again, Barton was the winner as it seemed, with the redhead shrugging. “I’m not answering if I don’t like the question,” she coldly replied, “but yeah. Sure. It’s not like we’re on a clock here or anything.”  
“Who paid for this?” Clint asked and crossed his arms.  
Barney sighed. “I’m not certain.” He could see them both tense up and he made a point of talking on fast. “I know. I know how that sounds. I’m working for a guy named Baron Zemo. I have no idea who paid for the hit, though, could have been something personal or business-related or maybe he lent me out to some business partner. He’s done it before. I don’t know what beef he might have had with a US congressman, but a target like this… must have been important and if he didn’t order it himself, then there was a hell of a lot more money in this than in the jobs I normally work.” 

He frowned shortly, then he knew what he wanted to ask, turning to Clint. “So, for which agency are you doing this and who’s your smoking hot partner?”  
“Only one question at a time,” the European (he was sure by now, there was some sort of accent) intercepted, and Clint nodded to her. “Officially we’re not working for anyone right now, this particular job is under the radar. My partner’s name is Mikaela.”  
Barney snorted. “That’s not even half the intel you could have given me, but okay, I’ll play along.” Mikaela, no last name, and he was pretty sure that wasn’t her real first name, either. Well, well. She was obviously trying to keep a low profile, that one, and his little brother was lying through his teeth to protect her. Meaning he didn’t trust Barney. Seemed like Clint had grown some brains over the last few years… VERY interesting.

“So, SHIELD set you in blindly against your own brother, didn’t even bother to give you backup or a secure exit… just so that they can claim probable deniability for some reason. I guess that’s in case you two geniuses mess up.”  
“He’s got backup,” Foxy snarled from her corner, green eyes flashing angrily.  
“She’s right,” Clint nodded to her shortly. “I got all the backup anyone could ask for.”  
“Backup whose name is _not_ Mikaela,” Barney agreed, grinning. “Don’t bother lying. I don’t need to know, I’ll just call her ‘Foxy’. That’s fine by me.” The agents exchanged another glance. It would have been cute if they hadn’t frustrated him so much with the constant exclusion. It felt like they were speaking some sort of hidden sign language that he had no grasp on, all he knew was that it was in their eyes, something, and he knew he should have been able to read at least Clint’s half, but most of the time, he couldn’t. He just… this was his little brother, his responsibility, and his eyes were almost as vacuous as those of a stranger.

“So. Zemo.” Foxy smiled casually and climbed on the armchair, sitting down on the backrest with her feet on the seat cushion. It was freakish how small she was, dainty and almost fragile, compared to the punch she packed. If she’d been taller, she might have been even more dangerous. Barney had the feeling that she knew that name and judging by Clint’s face, he knew it too. Of course they did. Zemo was well-known throughout the underground, his organization was lethal, widely spread and extremely well organized. SHIELD probably had more than one or two assets in Zemo’s ranks, but Barney doubted they had made it far up the ladder yet. The baron was damn good at what he did.

“Yes?” Barney looked at the woman. “Just repeating his name isn’t a real question, you know? But we can count it as one, if you want.” – “Why are you loyal to that scumbag?” She smiled and stepped up closer and Clint just… let her. “What’s so special about Zemo? I mean, he probably pays you well enough, but so would a lot of other guys, someone with your skillset must have a bunch of great offers.”  
Barney shrugged. “His was the best, I guess.” Clint snorted. “Riiiight. ‘Cause you’re all about the money now.” Damn. Clint had really learned a few things, as it seemed. Good for him. “Maybe I am?”  
Foxy laughed. Both men turned to look at her and she shrugged them off. “I just realized… You two are the most pathetic liars I’ve ever seen. Must be a family trait.” Fuck. Was it really this visible? Maybe because she knew Clint. Maybe she was right, family resemblance, same tell or whatever, but Barney had always fancied himself a good liar up to this point. 

“Okay. Okay.“ Barney sighed. This was going nowhere if he didn’t talk because obviously they could tell when he was lying and he needed to get out of here. He couldn’t risk Zemo knowing that he had talked to the feds. “Okay. No. I am not loyal to that bastard. He’s got something on me.”  
Foxy nodded. “Yes, I figured. What is it? Debt? Leverage?” – “When I say ‘has’ I mean he has to means to destroy it and when I say it I mean… someone.” – “Someone like… a friend? Or a lover?” Clint’s eyes were fixed on Barney’s face. „If he’s forcing you to do this, we can get you out of it. Reduce your sentence, maybe even make it all go away.” There was wild hope in Clint’s voice, in his eyes. Hope that he might get his brother back after all and it was but now that Barney realized how badly Clint wished for this opportunity, for a second chance. 

“More like… family.” Barney said it and in the next second he cursed himself for his honesty and he knew, he would say no more. Didn’t seem to be necessary, anyways.  
“Fuck.”  
Clint bit his lip. Did he really understand? Could he, with just one word? Maybe. Maybe he got it half-right.

Whatever it was, Barney didn’t want to deepen the subject. “Yeah. He found my one weak spot. I’m sorry, Clint. I’m… screwed. And I can’t just… kill myself because then he… Like I said. He’s got me by the balls.”

Clint surprised him. There was anger in his little brother’s eyes and then there was determination. “Not for long.”  
“Clint…” Foxy tried to say something but he shut her up with just one dark glance.  
“This is my fight,” he told her and Barney both, “it is my fight because I choose it for myself.” – “No, it is not.” Barney knew, this was all messed up, Clint had misunderstood what he had tried to tell him, but he would not let it happen, he would not let his brother die on his behalf. “You keep out of this. I’m fine, I can deal with it… I’m…”  
“You’re not FINE and this, we deal with together. Permanently. I don’t care what it takes but between the two of us, piercing Zemo’s eye socket with an arrow shouldn’t be so hard.”  
“It’s not just Zemo we’d have to take out,” Barney protested. “Clint, it’s the entire organization. He’s got five generals, all of whom might just take up his spot if something happens to him and the first thing they’d do…” – “So we kill them all.” Clint’s voice was finite and it was cold. Cold and unrelenting.  
„Clint, you can’t just… Fury will have your head for this. You can’t go freelancing with a known fellon.” Foxy, so sweet. Thinking she could actually stop a Barton once he’d gotten an idea in his head. Or maybe she just could. She was… strange. Stronger than he’d ever imagined any woman to be.  
„Listen to her, Crumbs. This is too big for you. And it’s not your fight. This is mine. They took me on, not you, so don’t make this about…”  
“… about family? But it is. I don’t know when throughout the last eight years you might have forgotten that, Barney, but family cuts both ways. They mess with you, they mess with me, easy as that.”  
Barney felt a sob in his throat but he pushed it back down. His stupid little brother. So naïve. So sure of himself. Wanted to change the world and had no idea how it worked, living on a feeling in his gut instead of rational thinking. Oh Clint…

„I’m not supporting this,” Foxy hissed and she crossed her arms in front of her chest and stepped up in front of Clint, never mind the gun he was still holding loosely in his hand. “I’m not watching you barge in and take on Zemo all by yourself, with your screw-up of a brother as only backup. You’re throwing your damn life away, Barton.” – “That’s the thing, it’s MY life, partner.”  
She was hurt by that. Barney could tell because her lips were pressed together and this gorgeous red pout became two straight white lines for a few seconds. “Fine,” she finally said, turning away sharply. “Fine. Tell me what lie to tell Fury on the plane home. You want to plan your death, that’s your thing. Don’t expect me to watch or help you out because I’m DONE with you. I’m out.”

With that, she left. She just left.

Barney stared after her for a few seconds, Clint, however, put the gun back on the table, slowly. 

“She’s… something,” Barney finally said, carefully. Clint nodded, vanished in the bathroom and came back with a few towels, one of them wet. They didn’t talk much while the younger brother uncuffed the elder one and had a look at his shoulder, patching it up as best he could. He seemed to have quite a lot of practice with stuff like that. Barney wasn’t sure if he should be glad or worried because of that.  
Then, they just looked at each other. 

“Seriously,” Barney started carefully, “I don’t want you to get involved. I’m in this mess because…” Clint interrupted him mid-sentence. “Don’t say it. I know. I get it. But just think about where you’d stand if the situation were reversed. It could just as well have been. Would you leave me behind or would you risk everything to save me?”  
Barney opened his mouth, but Clint was faster again. “I’m not saying I’ll barge in there firing. That would be stupid as hell. We’ll have to be clever about this, you know. Careful. Patient. I can be patient if I have to, now, you know. You’re calling the shots. I trust you on this one because you’re my man on the inside. You’ll have to go back in, I’m afraid. We can’t bring ‘em down from the outside, not the two of us, and SHIELD would never sanction a mission like this.” – “And your partner? One word to someone and you could end up in prison, Clint. Or… worse.”

Clint shrugged. “I trust her. She won’t tell anyone on me. She understands.”  
“You sure about that?”  
“Absolutely.” It came without hesitation, adamantly. A fact, not even open for debate. They could trust Foxy to keep her mouth shut. Okay.

Barney didn’t want to, but he felt the hope that filled Clint grow inside of him, too. It was just a little chance, a small chance, but maybe… if they could do this, if they could really pull this off, did he have the right to be a coward right now? It was Clint’s life. He knew what he was getting into, by the look in his eyes, and he was prepared to risk everything.  
Barney didn’t want to risk that much but the thing was… right now, he was carrying the worst risk on his shoulders. If he screwed up… well. He’d have to take precautions, make sure that didn’t happen. “Okay.” 

He knew as soon as he’d said it, that there was no turning back now. He would end up dead or free, and he was prepared to risk the first for the sake of the latter. They found themselves a secure place on some empty roof, a few blocks away from the crime scene, and then they started planning.

 

The first grey of dawn was sneaking up on Barney, when he finally made it back to his little motel room, closing the door behind him and plummeting on his bed. “Oh, please, don’t stay awake on my behalf.”

The female voice made him jerk up in surprise. Then he recognized her, those never-ending curves and the pouty lips and the red curls surrounding that pristinely beautiful face. She was so gorgeous it hurt almost as much as the fire in his shoulder.  
“Foxy.”  
She had her gun out, pointing it directly between his eyes, but he knew by now that she wouldn’t even need that to kill him. Her melee skills had been well above his, even without Clint she might have gotten the better of him. “That’s not my name.” – “You didn’t tell me your name. Give me your real name and I’ll call you that.”  
“Clint gave you a name for me.” – “Yeah, no. You don’t look like a Mikaela, not at all. I’ll stick with Foxy.” He grinned up at her. He just couldn’t help himself. She was smoking. And she was angry. Furious, actually, although she tried to look calm and composed.  
“What do you want, Foxy?” She grit her teeth, but she stayed where she was, not even fidgeting on the spot.

“Oh, I just have a friendly warning for you. You see, Clint is my partner. I don’t expect you to understand loyalty because clearly, yours is for sale, so let me make this perfectly clear: If I get a feeling you’re playing him, if something happens to him, if he has so much as one hair out of place on behalf of you… You’ll wish that bullet hat hit you right between the eyes. Got me, Barton?”

He believed her. He wasn’t sure what kind of punishment she would concoct but she seemed dead serious. Still, he grinned at that. “Oh, come on. You know as well as me that I’m not out to hurt my brother. What are you really here for? Some rough post-mission sex? Clint not enough for you, little fox?”  
She backhanded him with her gun, then, hard, and her eyes were murderous, but she didn’t say anything.  
“Okay, you’re taking the ‘rough’ up a nudge and start at ‘violent’, but that’s alright. I can do that, too.” Barney winked at her as if he wouldn’t take her seriously and for a second, he thought she’d hit him again. “What now?” he asked. She just looked at him with that strange glimmer in her eyes, so he piled on. “We done here or are you going to undress? ‘Cause sweetheart, not to rush, but we’re gaining daylight.”

She breathed, heavily, and then she forced herself to talk instead of an attack. “I know you lied to him,” she said coldly. “I could see it. THere was more than you told him. He thinks this is about him, but it’s not. Maybe it once was, maybe that’s still part of the deal, but the factors have changed, haven’t they? Something else is on your mind and whatever it is, you’re ready to choose it over my partner. Tell me I’m wrong.”  
Barney flinched. She knew. She saw through him. But he wouldn’t give it up, his secret, he couldn’t. It was too important. And he didn’t trust her. She was screwing with Clint, obviously. Clint had always had a bad hand when it came to picking friends. This one was just winner of the ‘worst friend of the year’-award. She had secrets. She wasn’t just what she said she was, hey, she didn’t even say who she was! She was dangerous as hell.

“You’re wrong,” he told her as calmly as possible. “Clint’s my highest priority right now. He and his safety.” Her eyes flashed at his lie and she tried to hit him again, but this time he knew it was coming and he caught her wrist and used her movement to throw her on the bed beside him, rolling on top of her. At once, he could fell her tensing up, but for the moment, he had the superior angle and he forced the gun out of her hand, pushing it off the bed before he pulled a knife from his belt and held it to her throat. “Since we are in the business of warning each other, Foxy, I feel I owe you one too. You’re obviously not just some SHIELD-agent. I don’t know what your deal is exactly but I don’t trust you as far as I could throw you. I’m glad Clint has someone who cares for him enough to look out for him, that’s why I won’t hurt you if you don’t force me to. But that doesn’t make us friends, Barbie. Don’t think I didn’t see the puppy eyes he gave you all the time. You so much as scratch his heart – or any other part of his body – and I’m coming after you. You use him for your games, no matter what they are, I’ll come after you. You’ll never see me coming, sweetheart, because I can take you from the distance. You can believe whatever you want, but he IS my responsibility. He IS my family. And I’ll sooner die than see him harmed.”

She smiled. “See? Now that, I believed.” Barney blinked, confused, and in that moment her hand was around his, pressing some point that made him all stiff. He lost the knife, couldn’t even move properly as she threw him around and sat down on top of him, holding him down. “The problem is, Barton, I’ve been around Clint for years now while you’ve been out and about killing people for money, so you don’t get to make demands. Half a day ago he didn’t even know you still lived and trust me, he was happier then. If you’d had any significance to his life throughout the last few years, he would have told me about you. But he didn’t.”

That hurt. It was probably the truth, but that fact only made it worse because Barney knew what she was implying and she knew she was right: It was his fault that Clint had had to live without him, closing up the pain inside and never even talking about Barney to a person who was obviously very, very close to him. No matter what she was, partner, friend, girlfriend, she was deeply invested. And she had not even heard about the fact that Clint had ever had a brother. As if he never even existed.  
He had to give it back, the anger and the pain. “Yeah? Maybe you’re just not as important as you think you are.” – “Maybe you aren’t any longer.” Shit. She was good. She lifted her brows and he didn’t know what to say to that. What could be possible said in return? 

While he was still wondering what to say, something hard hit him at the side of his head.

He woke up a few minutes later, according to his watch. The redhead was gone.

  
**IV**

Backroom of an Underground Casino, NYC | September 12, 2014

“I’m not happy,” the man in the pinstripe suit told his companion silently. Through the door, they could hear jazz music mixing with the soft murmur of voices. Every now and then, there was cheering or laughter and then the ambient noise ebbed away again.  
“If you are not ‘appy, Boss, neither am I. So whom am I reminding of the loyalty they owe you?” The French accent did nothing to obscure the eagerness in the servant’s voice, if anything, it enhanced it.  
If the pinstriped man was smiling to that, however, it wasn’t visible behind his mask and certainly not audible in his voice, for as velvet and sonorous as it sounded, there was still the possibility for a murderous frown. “The archer. He has failed us.”

There was a whistle and the kneeling man grinned up at his masked superior. “Barton? ‘ow severely would you like ‘im reminded?”  
“Harshly.” – “That bad, ‘uh?” – “Yes. Start in Iowa. Spare the leverage, I’m not cruel. There are other ways to affect her than physical pain. You have three days to get back to this city and finish the job here. Let’s prove to the little punk that we indeed know ALL his weak spots.”  
“As good as done, Boss.”  
“You don’t have any scruple concerning this task? I am you once were like a father to the boy and the girl... They say you and her had a… special… relationship.”  
“Neither of that will be a problem. The girl was just a little plaything, pretty but not serious and the boy… I took ‘im in, taught ‘im and was good to ‘im. Until ‘e betrayed me. I ‘ave ‘oped very long for such an opportunity and I promise, I won’t fail you, Boss.”

The mask nodded. The audience was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:**  
>  Contains graphic depictions of violence resulting in injuries. Also contains some sexism and, like always, mentions of child abuse, sex and someone pretty creepy and pretty ugly. Which is not cool, we know that, bad guys don't always have to be ugly, but well... this one is. We blame the canon.
> 
> Head's up for the next one: There'll be fluff again! We thought about giving you the solution to the cliffhanger right away but, come on, that would be SO boring... so just... stay cool.  
> It's just one of the Bartons, right? No biggy.
> 
> And here are cookies for fengshuoye. :) We were jumping in circles when we saw the comment and yes: Everyone is in need of a hug. It's a shame. *puts Clint und Bruce there for some cuddling*


	11. 10. Gun Shy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff can make you weary if you apply it too generously, that's why we're issuing a major warning for this chapter. There's just too much pink.
> 
> Also, have a look at the end notes for additional trigger **warnings**.

  
**10\. Gun Shy**

_Well I knew, I could see, it was all cut and dried to me_  
 _There was soldier's blue blood streaming inside your veins._  
 _There is a world outside of this room and when you meet it promise me_  
 _You won't meet it with your gun taking aim._  
 _I don't mean to argue, they've made a decent boy of you_  
 _And I don't mean to spoil your homecoming my baby brother Jude_  
 _And I don't mean to hurt you by saying this again,_  
 _They're so good at making soldiers but they're not so good at making men._

 

Shopping Street, NYC | September 15, 2013

**I**  


Bruce knew about the Thorntons. He knew they were following him, he knew they were keeping tabs on him and were carrying sedating-devices with them at all times. Just in case.  
He wasn’t mad because of that. Actually he thought them to be quite adorable for being under the impression that there was any use to subterfuge.  
But on this special occasion, he really needed to get rid of them and he didn’t want to hurt their feelings while he was at the process. They were good agents and he had smashed David Thornton’s leg in Brazil. He really didn’t want to add his confidence to that list.  
But he also needed to buy some things and he didn’t want the Thorntons there for that. He didn’t want them to know, he didn’t want them to tell Fury. There was always something that he didn’t want them to know. They could know about his life at the tower, they could know about his work, his death toll and all the damage he had done. But they would not know about...other stuff. They would definitely never know about Betty.  
It was her birthday coming up and Bruce knew he probably shouldn’t send her something. So he would send it to her husband and write him a letter with it. He really just wanted to get her something, that would make her smile and now, that he had money… it seemed like treat simple and harmless enough.  
As long as the Thorntons wouldn’t know. As long as Fury and SHIELD would not know.  
So yeah. He needed a complice for this whole thing. And he knew just the guy.  
Bruce ignored the fact that someone was watching him through the cameras -- Maya or David, it didn’t really matter -- and slipped out into the streets. He knew about Hawkeye’s place. He knew because the address had seemed like something he _should_ know, not like all the other stuff that probably stood in his file. He had not read any of the personnel files. It had never seemed right to him to get to know some of this stuff without being told or… well. He probably had destroyed this thought when he had extracted information from Barton with his little game but that had been different. He needed Barton to know that there was… well. That there was stuff that needed to get out, so that he could heal. The agent was hurting, it was so plain to see and Bruce didn’t like that look on his face. He wasn’t that kind of doctor so he knew really just one simple solution: Spill it out. Accept it. Get it over and done with, so… so he could accept to be _liked_ by people. Clint still had that choice and it drove Bruce a little bit nuts that the idiot wasn’t taking that chance.  
He knew that one Thornton was following him through the streets. Bruce had put his baseball-cap on and it was sunny enough that the sunglasses weren’t that obvious. He wore a very plain jacket and and one of the ‘I-am-Iron-Man’-shirts Tony had given to everyone. It clashed horribly with his trousers (beige and well worn), but Bruce really had no idea what didn’t clash horribly and he had never been one to care as long as it didn’t smell of the sewers. Even that had been a luxury for quite some time. He also had green trainers on his feet, which was just an evil joke, but he had taken them without looking, so well…  
Clint’s building was four stories tall and not really in the best of neighbourhoods. Bruce looked up and then went the nearest starbucks, got a chai and some kind of milkshake and some cookies and then went back and into the building and up and up and up and up. He greeted some people he met on the stairs (the elevator was broken but Bruce didn’t like elevators anyhow), smiled and then pocketed his glasses when he was at Clints door (the dirty sign said ‘Seymour, C.’) and knocked, using the rhythm of ‘Eye of the tiger’.

For a short while, nothing happened, then the door opened just a tiny crack, Clint’s steel-blue eyes flashing through before it got opened entirely and Clint stepped aside and waved him in with a hand that was still holding a gun.. “Banner… What the hell’re ye doin’ out here? This’s a bad neighbourhood, ye know that, right?” Not the best greeting, but well… he hadn’t told Hawkeye he was coming. Being a bad host probably came with the spy training.  
“I have cookies to bribe my way out of encounters with people trying to get the money out of my designer trousers.” Bruce smiled and held the cookies up for Clint to see. “Also… not the worst neighbourhood I’ve been in. Not by a long shot.”

A small smile started forming on Clint’s lips. He looked a little bit tired out, and there were some medical stripes on his arms where he looked like he’d jumped through a closed window. Some of the cuts had obviously been closed with superglue, if they were too deep to just put a med-strip over them. Others were so small Hawkeye had probably found them insignificant and had just left them open to heal. “‘'t’s exactly bad enough that nobody asks dumb questions if they see me with a gun tucked in my jeans," Clint grinned and closed the door behind Bruce.  
“Thankfully I never had that kind of a problem.” Bruce huffed and thought back to that little town in Mexico, that was no more. “Well...I kinda had the problem that I _didn’t_ have a gun and like five butterflies in that one location...Everyone started thinking I was a cop and I was still…. not so good with adapting to new situations. I wanted to patch them up and told them that drugs were bad. I probably deserved the bullet for saying that in a drug-cartel-hide-out.” - “Telling adicts their stuff is bad for them is always a bad call. ‘specially if they got guns and knives,” Clint agreed, grinning even wider and walking through the small room. “ _I was young and foolish then and much too blind to see…_ ” Bruce started singing under his breath without noticing at first and then stopped and blushed. He tried to take his mind of things, looking around, taking everything in. High, high ceilings. Probably the highest you could get in a neighbourhood like this. There was a single, high bunk bed with a ladder at the left wall. So either Clint just preferred sleeping in high places or he had found that fact that he could put a small working desk and a laptop underneath it especially practical. Directly opposite of the bed, there was a couch with TV-set at the right wall. At the far end to the right, there was a small kitchen with a counter that also seemed to serve as dining table. Opposite to that arrangement, the only other door was possibly leading to the bathroom,, almost invisible behind the punching bag that was dangling from the ceiling. Between the two windows overlooking the street, Clint had hung a target, by the state of it it didn’t just serve as fancy wall decoration. That was about it. Some stashes of books surrounding the TV-set, a small wardrobe right next to the door and, of course, a bow and quiver hanging over the couch. Cosy. What Bruce lacked in clothing style, Barton obviously didn’t make up for in interior design. Everything was highly functional, orderly and a little bit cold, like a strange mix of army bunk and bachelor’s den.  
“You said 16.”, he said after a few seconds. “16 escape-routes. I just count 13 and that is if you really are inclined on using the TV to bomb a hole in the floor.” Clint laughed. “Huh, seems like Tasha and I both underestimated your capabilities. Very creative - because that one I actually didn’t think of. Guess I like my TV too much.” He winked. “Sorry, won’t show you what you don’t see. Wouldn’t exactly be the point of SECRET escape routes if I told just about any first-time visitor where to find ‘em.”  
Then, the archer walked over to the left-hand window, looking outside for a few seconds. He didn’t seem surprised by what he saw, but there was a small frown on his forehead nevertheless. “You realize Fury put a tail on you, right?”  
“Exactly the reason why I am here. By the way: Is it the cute one or the angry one?” Bruce placed himself on the stairs up to the bunk bed and took a sip of his Chai. He was still looking around, searching for the other escape-routes. He had another one after three seconds, but well… if Clint didn’t want to use his TV as a bomb he probably had some similar thoughts about the oven.

 

Clint grinned, smugly. “The sexy one. But she can get pretty angry, too, if you push the wrong buttons.”  
Bruce let his eyebrows climb up high. Ugh. He heard a story there, a story he wasn’t sure he wanted to know about. But so it was Maya. That made things… well. Not better or worse, really. She still had her confidence intact and he hadn’t smashed her arm or leg or something. He just scared her, he knew that. She was clever.  
“They’re both suckers for protocol. Really, really annoying. But yeah, we’re lucky. At least we got the sexy rookie, we can work with that. Shake her off.” Clint didn’t even need an explanation, he obviously was capable of putting two and two together and realizing Bruce’s plan and he went over to his wardrobe, getting a shirt and a jeans out and tossing both in Bruce’s direction. “Those should fit you, more or less. You might have to roll up the legs a bit. Sorry. Let’s see if I have another jacket…”  
Bruce nodded and then slipped out of his Iron-Man shirt. He tried not to be too self conscious about it. All the Avengers had seen him naked more than once, but it was really something different to actually pull of your shirt. He laid in on a chair, let the trousers follow and then put on the new shirt and the jeans. Well. The jeans fit a little bit too snugly for his taste. He was really getting old. And a little bit too used to the good life. He shouldn’t let Tony feed him with Pizza and Burgers all the time. Bruce tried to coerce everyone in healthy food, in curry and vegetables, but he seldom had the time to cook and well… everything was a little bit different with him. He didn’t need to check if there were some poisons on the fruits or vegetables. He didn’t even wash them some of the time. That would work for Steve but he wasn’t so sure about Tony, Thor and the SHIELD-people.  
“Lead the way, oh captain, my captain.”, he said when he put his cap inside out and put it back on. 

Clint looked him over scrutinizingly, then took the cap from his head and put it into one of the many pockets of his jacket that looked a little bit too baggy on Bruce, especially around the shoulders. He nodded and put on another of his jackets, black leather, shutting the apartment-door behind them and locking it twice.  
They left the building through a back door, climbing over a wall into the adjoining building’s back yard and following a labyrinth of small alleyways until they hit one of the more animated streets. Clint looked back every now and then, but obviously Maya hadn’t been able to bisect herself and was still waiting for Bruce in front of Clint’s flat. “Rookie mistake. If you can’t watch both entrances, get the high-ground and look directly at the people you’re supposed to have eyes on,” Clint explained, grinningly. 

“Well, she doesn’t know that I know that she has been following me.” Bruce sighed and grinned a bit sheepishly. “I thought that would come in handy. Being able to surprise them when I really needed to. And Maya on high-ground… well. She couldn’t really be following us from there if we came out fast now, could she? And I suppose she doesn’t want to shoot at me. THAT’s a rookie-mistake I don’t particularly enjoy.”

“Another rookie mistake. You’ve been running for years. You’re anything _but_ an easy target. She should have known that you’d know.”Clint shook his head and smiled. “Gotta love rookies. So adorable when they try. I almost feel sorry for her. Especially since you switched clothes. She won’t even be able to locate us without going through the usual SHIELD-channels. Might take her two hours to even realize you’re not coming out from her angle and then another one and a half hours for SHIELD to locate us in downtown NYC, since I didn’t take a tracker with me and any tracker she’d have on you would have been on your clothing. All in all I’d say we have about two hours at the worst and five hours at the best until they corner us. Anything particular you had planned for that time-frame, Doc?”

“I wanted to take you for laser-tag and some ice-cream, kiddo.” Bruce winked, then he frowned. “Bad plannin’, granpa. I’m pretty sure I’d kick your ass at laser-tag.”- “Actually, ice-cream doesn't sound that bad. I didn't have a decent milkshake in...well… forever. Would be my treat if you are game. The main thing, however…” And now he started to fidget and he knew it and that didn’t make it any better. He put a hand up and scratched his neck. How could he explain something like this? Did he even have to? That was the bad part about teaming up with Clint: He had an audience for the day, one way or another. The good thing was, that Clint wouldn’t report back to SHIELD. Not now, not without Coulson calling a report in and dead men didn’t tend to do that. “I… I have to buy and post something. There’s a birthday coming up and well... Now that I have money and time, I thought it would be nice to send something.” He already knew what. He had seen it when he had been out with Tony, when they had been around for getting Swarma. There had been this nice, cozy place and he had seen it in the shop-window and he had thought: Yes, yes, she would like that.

Clint didn’t seem the least bit nosy to whom Bruce was sending birthday presents. “Milkshakes sounds awesome. I know just the place. But we should probably start with your shopping tour. Just so we’re finished when SHIELD comes a’ knockin’. I’ve gotta warn you, Fury isn’t exactly happy about my recent freelancin’-tours, so being with me won’t earn you any extra credit points or somethin’. I can tell him I was having an eye on you in case he flips out, if he believes me is another question, though.” Bruce chuckled and then put out his hand and ruffled Clint’s hair. “Fury and I… we have some sort of agreement. It has never been spoken out loud, but well. He doesn’t try to make me do things I don’t like and I don’t call him on the fact that he may have a cage for me and a lot of weapons but really nothing that… well. Would be effective enough. I play along and he doesn’t use me as a weapon when I don’t think it is a good idea. Or at least… not a terribly bad one. I don’t need credit points.” 

Clint nodded slowly. “Yeah, well, I recently figured out that credit points don’t buy you that much with Fury anyways. He needs to screw you over to protect SHIELD, he’ll do it. Easy as that. They give you the big speech, ‘we take care of our own and yabba yabba’ and they do try, but if they just can’t, they’ll protect their own asses before anyone else’s. So yeah. Let ‘em make their red tape and stick to it, as long as I can do my job I’m not too big into all of his schemes and politics.”  
Clint was a nice guy. Bruce actually didn't see why he was here. Why he had become an assassin.  
 _His brother left or has been taken and there must have been a lot of bad choices._ He could see it quite clearly in the way Clint’s arms hung at his sides, how his shoulders were always stiff. He always thought that something might be out there to get him, to take him down and out. To give him more pain and grief.  
Someone as young and naturally cheerful as Clint should not have to look like that.  
“Me neither.” Bruce sighed and ruffled his own hair. “Doesn’t seem to be that much of difference, hm? You say something and they go over your head and do something else entirely. People are so stupid.” They really were. Bruce looked around himself and everywhere people just didn’t seem able to think. He sometimes wondered what it would be like to have a mind as slow as theirs, to be able to float along, no care in the world, not seeing the possibilities, the statistics, the… well. Everything.  
People floated past them and Bruce looked at all the pretty colours and all the wary faces and he sighed again. Problems. They all had problems and everything else just couldn’t touch them.  
“We all are just porcupines.”

Clint clearly had trouble following that last bit, frowning and thinking and obviously not quite able to figure out why porcupines and not zebras. “I can see where the ‘stupid’ kicks in,” he admitted, grinning again. “But from where I’m standing, there’s actually a few people who are just too smart for everyone else’s good, you know? Making schemes and plots and politics where there probably shouldn’t be any. Trying to get the upper hand, playing chess with people’s lives. It just makes me sick sometimes, man.”

Bruce didn’t want to seem arrogant. He knew that he sounded arrogant when he talked about intelligence and IQ and well... He had _tried_. He still tried. He had been trying while he was with the military and he had been a little bit too successful. Whenever he had wanted someone to listen to him, no one had done so. He was shy and awkward and people overlooked him and didn’t notice how intelligent he was and that had been what he had wanted but sometimes… sometimes it really got frustrating.  
“They don’t have much of a choice sometimes. But they do it so _badly._.” Bruce put a hand over his eyes. “Sorry. It's…” He faltered a little bit, tried to make himself smaller. He wanted nothing more, than to storm into SHIELD-HQ and just MAKE them see reason, sometimes. He wanted to optimize stuff, he wanted to get a good look at their computers, he wanted to show them all the faults they had, everything, he wanted to make them see how _annoyingly stupid_ they were.  
He was so gone.  
He was just a bunch of muscles in a meat suit no one would notice on the streets.  
Like now.  
“....I forget sometimes. To not be... Ah, well. It’s not like... Ah, there they have milkshakes! Peppermint! We should remember that place for after the shopping. We could wait for Thornton there, get her a strawberry-one to say sorry.”  
“Nah, not that place. Belongs to the mob and the shakes aren’t that great. Trust me, I know a place.” Clint winked. He was looking so young and as if nothing could ever touch him, so self-confident right now, especially because he had long sleeves that hid the scratches Bruce knew were there. “This is my part of town, remember? Streetsmart Regular Guy.” He just skipped the entire intelligence- and SHIELD-discussion, picking up his pace a bit. “So, where did you want to go shopping? Already have an idea? I wouldn’t want to lead you in the wrong direction…”  
“Mobsters, huh?” Bruce looked at the place. “The nice kind or the one with no manners at all? And not the Fascillis, right?” The thought really wasn’t that good. He looked aways and put his cap closer over his head. 

“The kind that runs my building. Russian tracksuit-mob. They own half the area around here. You see some big guys with tracksuits, guns, crowbars, a really bad accent and an even worse attitude, you got ‘em. Not the brightest there are, but they’re many, so yeah. Don’t freak out, just stay calm an’ keep your head down.” Clint laughed. “What’s the ‘nice’ kind of mobster, anyways?”  
“That’s good.”, Bruce huffed his relieve. He hadn’t had any prior meetings with russian mobsters. So there would -- hopefully -- be no harsh feelings about anything. “Well.. you know. The kind of mobsters with suits and manners who give you pasta and then ask you nicely if you are an undercover-cop and laugh at you when they notice that your italian is just… rudimentary. I’m still trying to figure out what I said to that one guy. I think it was something like ‘Your daughter’s elephant is a fancy cop.’. It’s a long way from that to ‘You really don’t want to shoot me.’” - “El Capo-style?” Clint was still laughing. “Yeah, no, you can forget that around here and even if their accent is gross, their Russian is worse. They speak broken English and nothing else really. They’re just street-thugs who found someone to call the shots. Half-way organized crime, a lot of posing, nothing behind it except for greed and anger management issues. But I’m still not gonna ask for trouble with these guys. If there are enough of them, even the stupidest thugs get you down, no matter what your training, I’m not good at all at school-knowledge but I’d say that’s simple physics, right?”

“More like statistics. Someone will land a punch.” Bruce frowned while he looked at Clint. “I didn’t call you stupid, did I? I need to know that, I sometimes… I got a little bit too comfortable, I think. I forget my manners sometimes. I am this close to calling Fury a moron and I don’t think he would take to that so well. It’s Tony’s bad influence and he doesn’t have as big a gap to normal as I. Uh. Don’t tell him I said that. He doesn’t take well to The List. I’ll just shut up about that. Let’s not talk about anything intelligence-related.”

“Nah, _I_ called myself stupid, but well, compared to you basically everyone is, even Stark. And I like that you’re smart. I can ask you stuff I don’t know. And you’re not bragging about it or anything, just saying, you know I got other qualities and that’s okay with you. I mean, Stark sometimes throws words at me he knows I don’t know just to piss me off or shuff his IQ in my face. You never do that. Except for… that one time. With the lying. But well, I asked for it, didn’t I? You don’t screw with someone who’s stronger than yourself, unless you’ve got a really good technique to make up for that fact.”  
“Next time he does that, tell him: Mr Fantastic. Nr 1.” Bruce knew that that would make Tony shut up preeeeetty fast. And he deserved it if he was being like that. He blushed when Clint mentioned the lying-game. He hadn’t asked for that, not really. That had been kinda the point. Bruce still thought that he… that it had to be done. That SOMETHING had to be done to make Clint open up, but he wasn’t good with people and he probably had used the completely wrong way to do it. “I am sorry for upsetting you. And you’re not stupid. I am most of the time. I am just… I have quite an effective brain. It doesn’t help with not being a moron. Reed IS one of the biggest morons I have ever met, I can’t disagree with Tony on that.”

Clint laughed. “According to Natasha, I’m the biggest moron there is, but I’m still the smartest guy on the team, that’s why she’s putting up with me.”He shook his head. “I guess we’re all morons or porcupines or whatever you wanna call it. But that’s half the fun, right? The best decisions I ever made were the ones I shouted ‘dummy’ for at myself. Because with those decisions you usually get stuff going. And you surprise people and they can go and surprise you. Which is the best, really.”  
“She’s putting up with you because -- and I quote Doctor Foster’s assistant -- you are ‘eye-candy’. By the way, if you EVER want a threesome with Captain America, I think she will make it happen.” Clint bursted out laughing. “Darcy’s the best. Seriously. Cap has no idea what he’s getting into, but I bet she’ll make him work hard every step of the way and he still won’t be able to wear the pants in that relationship.” Bruce smiled and thought about the fact that he could say that and not die of embarrassment. Tony Stark. Really, if he would stop singing ‘I’ll make a man out of you’ Bruce might get to appreciate all the becoming a normal-participant-of-modern-sexfilled-societey. 

“But yeah, no, I’m not into men. If I were I’d be all over Cap because yeah… that’s some of America’s best genes for you, right there. But no. No devil’s threesome for me. That’s seriously not my thing.” Clint shuddered slightly. “Also I figure Cap’s pretty puritan. Did you see how he looked at us when I kissed you the other day? I was scared for a moment I gave him an actual heart attack. I mean, Thor basically comes from the middle-ages and he was more okay with that.”  
“I had just eyes for you, honey-suckle.”, Bruce deadpanned. “You’re breaking my heart. But I really think we’re not giving Steve enough credit. He had more groupies than Elvis.” - “And there I thought I was just breaking Stark’s heart. And I bet you ten dollars that Steve was a virgin when he first met Darcy. He went all stiff and gentlemanlike and blushy around her. He had NO idea where to look and seriously, that dress didn’t exactly mean there were a lot of choices for any straight guy on where to put his eyes.” - “And Thor is a norse god. You know with whom Loki has slept? A horse. A GIGANTIC HORSE! And Loki was the woman. Unless we introduce Thor to these furries rubbing each other or to some kind of crazed out Fanfiction where he himself has sex with Mjöllnir, we won’t shock him. I repeat myself: I never want to see an Asgardian party. It freaks me out a little bit.” Clint burst out laughing so hard that he had to stop and lean against a wall. “A _horse_?! You sure about that? Because that’s…” He shook his head, growing sincere. “I mean the guy is nuts. He’s creepy and dangerous and completely insane but I didn’t exactly see him as a sodomist.”  
“He lured the horse away, so that it’s master couldn’t finish a wall.” Bruce snickered. “I’ll give you my comic-version of the Edda. It is gold. I just say: Dwarves. And a Loki with his mouth sewn shut. It still gives me a warm feeling.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Okay, yeah, the Edda. According to that thing, Loki isn’t even Thor’s adoptive brother, as far as I heard. I mean , that are some crazy stories written down by crazy vikings or whatever. And even if they rip the guy to pieces in there… I know that didn’t happen because obviously he was still able to come down here in one piece and…” Clint stopped himself before his voice could get too bitter or too anxious - but it was a little bit too late, nevertheless. He was audibly stressed out.. “The Edda has been written quite some centuries ago. And they knew that Loki is an Ice-giant. Thor didn’t. I choose to believe in that book and amuse myself. In the very least, I can throw it in Loki’s face, should he show it around here again.” Bruce smiled. “I don’t think he will do anything against me. The Other Guy took sweet, sweet vengeance.” Clint shuddered. “Yeah, well. As far as I’m concerned I hope they still have the death penalty up there and I hope they don’t just scold him and send him to bed early because he broke some mortals when he came down here to play. But judging by Thor’s vexation with the guy that’s pretty much all that’ll happen to him and…” He ground his teeth. “He… and I… we did some pretty bad things. Just doesn’t seem fair to get off that easily.”

“For HIM or you?” Bruce asked before he could stop himself. He sighed and then stopped and put a hand over his eyes. “I am sorry. That is one of these things I think you should talk about and that you won’t want to talk about because you don’t want to hear that it isn’t your fault. Which isn’t what I would say anyway, but well. Your call: Touchy-feely-stuff and I give you a bunny as an an award or we ignore that I said that and continue in awkward silence, where -” - “ - milkshakes.” Clint interrupted him and dragged him into the little shop just three buildings down the road. “Best milkshakes in the area.”  
Bruce laughed. “Well. I have my answer, I guess.” But milkshakes sounded fine. Reeeeeally fine. He could use a milkshake right now, to get over… the feeling-stuff. It wasn’t his place to ‘heal’ Barton or even just treat him. There was nothing wrong with him, not in that regard. He was a fine enough human being, a fine… boy. But he was hurting. It was plainly visible. And Bruce felt the urge to help him. It was an itching under his skin. It crept up on him and he just needed so scratch it. If not, he would just go insane, he knew it. 

They got their milkshakes, Bruce ordered some peppermint-ecstasy for himself and Clint wanted plain ol’ chocolate, and then they continued on their way in silence, until Clint finally said something. “I didn’t get off _easily_ ,” he told Bruce, silently, almost too calm. “Trust me.” There was something in the short pause between two sentences, as if he wanted to add something, an explanation, a personal loss perhaps, and then didn’t. “I didn’t get off just like that, even if some people think that it’s not enough by far and I can’t really blame them for that, either. I… get it. They lost people they cared about or they see the damage or whatever and they need to blame _someone_ because that makes it all… easier. And they’re right, someone _should_ be taking the blame. And if I had done my job right, my _one_ job, protect the goddamn cube, none of that would’ve happened.” 

“Round the corner lives Moira Peabutty.” Bruce smiled and cocked his head. He had always liked that particular name. It was such a nice, silly, warm name. He didn’t like the story behind it but he liked the name. “After the battle of New York I was… I was walking the streets, looking at the damage and then there she stood and she saw me and came over and she asked: ‘Do you know who I am?’ It was curious, I hadn’t thought she would… well. It would have been very rude to not answer her or to lie and quite frankly I was just exhausted at that moment. It was half an hour after Swarma. I think Tony was searching the place, thinking I had just run away again.” He really had been. Bruce was almost certain, having seen the engineer afterwards, all puffed up and tired and still full of adrenalin. Bruce didn’t know why but even back then Tony hadn’t wanted him to go away. It was probably for him with Bruce like it was with Clint for Bruce: An itch under his skin, this feeling that there was _something_ and that it was HIS responsibility to make that adorable fool see sense and give him the feeling that he wasn’t alone and that this whole situation wasn’t something worth dying over. “So I said: ‘Yes. You are Moira Peabutty. You own a tea-shop right around the corner.’ - ‘Do you know, who I _am_.’, she asked again. ‘Yes.’, I said. ‘You are the widow of Norbert Peabutty. He was a fireman and he died in Harlem, crushed by a building. You have two small kids.’” Bruce looked at Clint and saw in his eyes, that he knew what that meant, that he knew about Harlem. How could he not know? “She asked me to come with her and I did. I didn’t ask her if she knew who _I_ was. She wouldn’t have talked to me unless she did. I just couldn’t fathom what she wanted of me. If she wanted to scream or shout or if she wanted to shoot me in the back when we got to her shop. I was a little bit afraid of that last one. People were coming back and I really didn’t fancy to rampage through New York just again. But she just sat me down in that little shop of hers, poured me cup of the best tea I had tasted in a long time and then she gave me a cookie. A _cookie_. I have NEVER looked at something to eat like it would try to eat me, except for that cookie. I was searching for fangs. And then she said ‘Thank you. Thank you for what you did today. I know it can’t have been that easy for you.’”  
Bruce tried to get lost in his milkshake. He could still smell that tea, taste it on his tongue. He could feel the pain in his heart and -- quite frankly -- everywhere else. He HAD wanted to run away again. He had wanted to leave and to never come back, ‘cause quite frankly, he hadn’t seen much of a choice back then. It had not occurred to him that he _really_ might be some kind of help and that people might _want_ him to help. He had let Tony find him later on. He had let him talk and _persuade_ him to just try the tower out. Just for a couple of nights. That had been the moment when he had started to get sucked into this whole mess. He let his finger point in different directions. “Mr Robert. His son. Helen Mayfield - her leg got smashed. Julia Eeering - her parents. Carl Balskow - his wife. I have killed or hurt 50 people in this city, when I broke Harlem. I know where every family lives. Some of them hate me, some of them don’t. The thing is… I _want_ them to hate me. I can’t really work with forgiveness and… people who are thankful. It creeps me out, it doesn’t feel right.” 

Clint had listened ever so silently, with that same calm expression he possessed when he sat in the far end of a room, watching everyone else, that special calmth of the hawk waiting for its prey or just watching his surroundings. He still didn’t speak now, just took a sip of his chocolate milkshake and walked beside Bruce. There was nothing to be said because they understood each other. They understood the wish to be hated, the need to be despised for what they had done because they both knew what true guilt felt like and how no one, no matter how often they said it, could really lift that burden off their backs. Because it was theirs to carry, their red ledger, and no matter what people said or did, it would never get any lighter. No matter how many others gave them forgiveness… there just was none because they could never forgive themselves. And that was that.

Bruce was alright with the silence. He stole glances at Clint and just hoped that the archer got some other message too: That feeling wasn’t really… it wasn’t how Clint should feel. Bruce thought that Clint was like Tony in some aspects: They both wanted him to not blame himself for everything. At least Clint seemed like the kind of guy who would want his friends (and maybe Bruce got a bit cocky with that one, but _yes_ , he thought that he might be called a friend. An elderly, not so cool friend, but a friend nonetheless) to not beat themselves up over something they had no control over. Of course it was different with Bruce. It was still him. He called the Hulk the ‘Other Guy’ but he had known that it was some _part_ of him, long before Tony had tried to make that the new revelation of the year. It was different from Clint’s situation. But… maybe… maybe Clint would think about how it was not something Bruce should have to feel and that would lead to some opening to get _him_ to forgive himself. Bruce probably wasn’t that good at this stuff, but he tried and this way seemed a little bit safer than ‘Three lies’ again.  
“The shop I have to visit is down that street.”, he said and then, when they were there he just stood outside and didn’t make any move to enter the shop. He bit his lip, scratched his neck and shuffled his feet. Ugh...he probably should have thought this through. Bruce stared at all the many musical clocks, at the sign that said ‘With every song you can name at load at You-Tube’ and at the ones with clowns and elephants on it and he just couldn’t make himself go inside. He really should reevaluate what he was doing here. She would _know_ that that present was from him, it was just too freaking personal and full of memories and... and...

“You know what,” Clint told him suddenly and touched his shoulder only so slightly, “you go in, look around. Buy what you need, have it wrapped, you know. Do your shopping. I’ll be right back, I’ve just got to check something.” There was a look in Clint’s eyes, this strange look that told him that something was off, something was completely off, and there was that strange little smile at the very same time, that smile that told Bruce that he had it under control, that everything would work out just fine and he could relax because Clint was there, Clint would take care of it and then they’d go on and have some more milkshake or Thai-food or something. And it was unsettling because it was the same strangely brave and stupid smile that always said ‘I’m fine’ when he was clearly messed up.  
But it was Clint. He was a master… well… perhaps not ‘assassin’. But agent. He knew his stuff. Bruce just nodded. It would have been strange for any bystanders had he not gone inside and… well… if there was a fight coming on, it was better if he was inside until it was over.  
Bruce frowned and looked back at the shop-window. “I could buy it and then just not send it, right? Gives me more time to think it over.” He put a hand on Clint’s shoulder. He didn’t want to leave him alone, but if there was ANY chance that he might take care of whatever without violence, then he was game. He had to take that chance. They were in Brooklyn. Steve would HATE him if he broke Brooklyn. “It’ll take just a few minutes. We’re meeting here again? Couple of minutes max?”

“Yeah, good idea,” Clint answered and smiled back. Now that he looked out for it, Bruce realized that Clint’s eyes were moving to their corners, not looking at Banner, whom he was talking to, but checking his surroundings. His shoulders, however, were completely relaxed, there was absolutely no tell in his entire body language.  
Bruce squeezed his shoulder one last time. He looked uncertain and he knew it but he had to trust Clint and he wouldn’t make that guy tell him, that he would be alright. That just… no. That wouldn’t have been okay. So he nodded and said “Five minutes.” and then he made himself enter the shop without looking back. Either there was really close to no threat or Clint was playing it cool for someone. “Five minutes, ten tops, sweetcheeks,” he assured Bruce before strolling towards the next small alley and vanishing out of sight.

**II**

Clint had been walking beside Bruce for a long time, silent, thinking about everything they had been talking about up to this point. A part of him wanted to open up to Bruce, tell him everything, just make him understand that he hadn’t been broken, he hadn’t been used like everybody seemed to presume. Clint had never been an _empty_ tool. Yes, of course, Loki had been ordering him around and yes, he had been robbed of his own free will – but only to a certain extent. Only insofar as his conscience, his personal moral code, was concerned. Clint hadn’t had a problem killing people in years, it was his job to be ready to kill when in a fight, usually because the other guys weren’t squeamish about bloodshed either. But there had always been that grey, almost invisible line that he had not dared to cross, there had always been the knowledge what he wanted to do and where it stopped. And this little line, this little decision was everything Loki had pulled out of his brain. Just a little line. A little separation. The one thing that made Clint the man he was, that made him... special… or halfway regular, or whatever he was, anything but not an assassin. So yes, when Stark had first come in contact with Barton, he had called him by his rightful job description because under Loki’s guidance, Hawkeye hadn’t been any different from what Natasha had been for many years. He had had a fixed goal, to serve, to accommodate, and he hadn’t had any boundaries when it came to the things he was ready to do in order to succeed. No restrictions. No red tape, not even the grey line he applied himself.

But how could you explain something like that to a man who really didn’t have a choice, how could you explain all the dark feelings and the strange wishes that sometimes came over Clint and the urge to kill, the urge to hurt, how could he explain his dreams and his nightmares and this other thing, this dark pool that had always been there but ever since Loki it wasn’t silent any more, it didn’t go unnoticed for even one second, it raged and boiled over and was aiming to drown him, to cover his entire existence. And he wanted to let go, to just get it over with, let go of his humanity and his feelings and all those stupid, stupid morals, just let go of the guilt and the shame and give them all something to really blame him for because he finally knew who he was at heart, a killer, a murderer, a weapon, ready to strike, ready to hear the blood simmer in his veins and the warm sensation of his victim’s last moments on his hands, wet and glittering and so warm… No. No, he could never tell anybody and he certainly couldn’t tell Bruce because Bruce was a good person, other than Barton, he was honest and kind and warm and so fragile, so damn nice and… what had been the word… breakable.

Bruce wanted to get rid of the Hulk. Barton wished he could just let go and embrace his darker self, day after day there were less strings holding him back. The more grief, the more desperation he felt, the more he wanted to just get it over with already. To just stop thinking, to just stop hurting, to just stop _feeling_ so damn much.

No matter how deep his thoughts, however, there were some senses that came with Clint’s animalistic side, with the hawk, the sniper, the agent and he could never shut them off. He had had that tingly feeling ever since they left the milkshake-joint and now it grew stronger, minute by minute. Whenever they took a turn or passed some other passers-by, Clint would turn back only so slightly, he would use short side-glances at Bruce or at the shop-windows to actually look back and look around him. All of his senses were heightened, adrenaline rushing through his body. They were being followed. At first, it was just the tingling sensation under his skin, a crawling tension that took hold of him. Then he could actually _see_ them, make them out, three of them. Guys. Big guys. No SHIELD employees, Barton knew of course that he couldn’t possibly know every single Agent of SHIELD, but he knew that those weren’t colleagues. It was in the way they moved, in the way they were watching their prey. He couldn’t tell who had trained them, but his guess was they were freelancers, one of them maybe an ex-SEAL, the other two some sort of mercenaries. South Africa perhaps, or Australia. He also didn’t know for sure if they were wearing earpieces but clearly, they weren’t working alone. None of them seemed to be the leading type and there was no possible motive for any of them to be following Bruce or Clint without orders.

Clint was just thinking about parting ways with Banner, see whom the thugs would follow and then get rid of them in one way or the other, when Bruce told him they were close to the shop he wanted to go to. Clint knew then that this was his opportunity. He knew also that Bruce had been running for far too long to just believe Clint was actually going to make a quick phone call, which was only good. Neither of them wanted the Hulk walk around in public. Those three might not be alone, but seriously, how many more could there be? Judging by the type of fighter they were, they weren’t working for SHIELD and he hoped for Ross neither (seriously, that guy had other ways, hadn’t he?), leaving some rich guy or some old enemy. Clint estimated six adversaries, well-trained, maybe eight. Definitely no more than eight. He could deal with that, even in a melee fight. Natasha had been a great teacher and she was the best, undoubtedly.

Still, when he stepped away from Bruce and into the narrow alleyway, ducking behind a container to look back if he was still being followed, he felt his heart speeding up. The thrill of the chase, it always got to him. And that was good. Fight or flight, those were his instincts and right now, he was _hunting_ the most dangerous prey of them all, carnivores.

He waited for ten seconds, then he could see the first of his haunters following him. Clint smiled grimly. _Good. Perfect. They’re not after Bruce, they’re after me, makes it so much easier to bait ‘em without risking civil lives._ He didn’t wonder who they were, whom they were working for. It didn’t really matter at this specific point. He was being followed by men who were clearly not there to just play eyes and ears. Thugs like these meant business, they meant serious business. _Just as well, I was getting bored anyhow._

He continued on, pretending he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him, until he found himself in the shop’s backyard, a deadlock just asking for something dark and brutal to happen, one way in and no way out. Looked like the set to a Scorsese-flick with those large, rusty metal containers and the brick walls and the neighbourhood that clearly didn’t mind if you screamed in broad daylight or if you hit each other hard enough to draw blood or if you just killed someone.

He walked into the trap, still pretending everything was just peachy when it was really not. And then he turned around and looked into the barrel of the gun. Small caliber. A girlie gun – why was that a girlie gun? “Easy there, Barton,” a voice told him. It was a familiar voice, but he couldn’t quite place it. He hadn’t heard it in years; that much he knew for sure. The man’s face gave nothing away, considering the fact that he was wearing a mask. Clint lifted his eyebrows. “Man, you’re making a mistake. I hope you brought a bunch of friends because seriously, this day was just starting to get dull and I could really use some exercise before dinner.”

The man didn’t answer. Maybe he knew that Clint would recognize his voice if he talked too much. Maybe he was being silent on purpose, playing it as safe as possible. Why else wear a mask in broad daylight? Why hide behind it if you had nothing to lose? Clint’s eyes flickered over his surroundings. No cameras. Nothing, no surveillance whatsoever. Of course, they couldn’t have known where he would go, not by a long shot, but still… they had chosen this moment to approach him, instead of just shooting him out in the street. So he was meant to survive this or they, whoever they were, had at least considered the possibility. Even the gun was telling. A thorax hit with that calibre likely wouldn’t even kill him. To kill someone with a gun like that, you had to hit ‘em really lucky, right in the heart or at a point that would make them bleed out - or in the head, of course. That’d do it just fine.

“You’re not here to kill me, are you?” Clint cocked his head a little bit and looked at his opponent. He for sure hadn’t been following Bruce and Clint in the open; this was a different guy, someone who had lain low until this very moment. This was the one calling the shots, clearly. As if to confirm his assumption, three more men - the ones who had followed him - stepped through the narrow passage into the backyard, crowbars in their hands. _Crowbars_. God, he hated those things. Nobody out for a fair fight would ever use a crowbar as a melee weapon because one hit could break your opponent’s bones and if you did a good enough job, one hit could just as well kill. They weren’t here to kill him, at least not quickly, and they weren’t here to talk.

Clint was missing his bow. He regretted not taking any weapon with him safe the obligatory knife he was hiding at his body, but he hadn’t thought he’d need a gun whilst going out for a walk with Bruce Banner. God, had he been wrong.  
“You always were such a smart-ass, Barton.” – “So I do know you.” Clint grinned a little bit. “You do realize that even if this works out well for you, I’ll still be coming after you with everything I’ve got, right? I mean, why take this risk if you’re not here to kill me? How about we skip the whole part where I break several bones in your guys’ bodies and dislocate a few joints and shove one of those crowbars up your ass, and you just tell me and I grant you safe retreat?”

The man laughed. It was a soft laugh, warm and chuckling and it send icy perks down Clint’s spine because he knew his laugh, he knew he had heard it somewhere before but he had met so many people, so many bad guys, he just couldn’t place it and he hated that he was thinking so slow.

He was still thinking he would be able to take them all at once. Well, the gun was a bit of a turnoff. He hated barrels being pushed in his face. But he’d be with the shooter in two seconds, giving the guy time to pull the trigger once, maybe twice, if he was very good. Meaning that, worst case, he’d catch two bullets before disarming the son of a bitch and tending to his friends in close combat. Okay, those odds sucked. Guns sucked, especially if you didn’t have one. And in the very moment he’d made a plan and was sure he’d be able to survive this one, there were steps outside in the alley, many steps, and they came into the backyard, one after the other, thug after thug after thug. Ten, twelve, thirteen of them.  
“Okay,” Clint admitted, lifting his hands up, “I get it. You did your homework. Good job. But I mean, come on. Whoever hired you guys gave you my name, but they screwed you over. I’ve got friends and they might get angry if I don’t make it home for dinner in one piece. You really want to risk pissing them off? Is it really worth that? Because eventually, they will come for you.”

_Yeah, threaten the bad guys, Barton. That always calms things right down. Dummy._ “Talking about SHIELD, Agent Barton? They won’t find us and they won’t exactly care given your recent rap sheet. Or are we talking the Avengers?” Clint’s stomach turned to ice. So they knew. They seriously knew and they were still prepared to take the risk. He was so screwed.

Well, he wouldn’t go down without a fight. “So, who’s the message from?” He moved back only so slightly, getting closer to the brick wall, trying to face all seventeen opponents at the same time. “Never mind,” the man with the mask told him. “It’s not for you.” – “Yeah? So for whom is it?”

He didn’t get an answer, at least not the one he’d taken into account. There just was a BANG and then there was an impact at his lower abdomen and he almost fell to his knees because of the shock, and there was this strange hot sensation, this burn and then the pain and the cold he knew, he knew the feeling, he’d been shot before though never in the belly _and it’s never like in the movies, it doesn’t get all slow motion and there’s no awesome music, there’s just **pain** and you just know you messed up._ And he pressed his hand on the wound and he tried to breathe and _Barton you idiot, move, get moving,_ and he pulled out his knife from his left ankle and jumped forward and into the first guy, _‘cause if you’re moving he can’t hit you without hitting his men, just move, move fast enough_ and he punched someone and felt something break underneath his fingers and then all hell broke loose and he messed some people up pretty bad, slitting and cutting and punching and kicking, but he couldn’t exactly think organized, he was in the middle of this fight and he was lucky because there were so many of them and so little space that they just couldn’t all get to him and they blocked the shooter’s view, but he was also screwed, he knew he was screwed, because he was bleeding out, there was wet seeping down his leg and a burn in his belly and cold in his bones, _so cold_ and he was ducking and hitting and fighting for his life and someone hit his hand with crowbar and he dropped the knife, but he had to keep on struggling and he _fought back_ with all he had left and every last dirty trick Tasha had taught him, nails and teeth and dirty, dirty, and he could hear Natasha sing in his ears, _dirty fighting, Barton, nobody cares for rules in open combat, anything goes, just hit me, give it your best shot_ , and he did and he hit and fought and scratched and bit and people were falling down around him and then he took a crowbar to the back and someone screamed and there were other hits, because if you slowed down for just one heartbeat then you became an easy target. _So don’t slow down, Barton, don’t be a moron, don’t be weak, just hit ‘em, hit ‘em hard so they don’t get up again_ , but he was getting tired and there was another BANG and an impact on his rib cage, up and to the left, above the heart, but still, no good, that was no good, breathing was getting hard and blood was in his mouth, had that been his lung and suddenly he was falling against the container and there were red sparks before his eyes and a crowbar hitting him over the chest, _oh please not my lung, get up Barton, get up, you don’t get wasted by a girly gun, Tasha will never let you hear the end of it, get up you lazy bastard_ and he felt something _crack_ , his ribs just cracked and he heard a scream again, was that his voice, was he screaming?

And then, finally, everything went slow and he knew he was going into shock, he just knew.

“If I were you, I would stop it right there, right now.” The voice was trembling. It was calm and nearly too quiet to be heard, it was freaking stern but there was definitely a trembling there

Clint knew that voice and even though he was glad that the beating had stopped, he also knew it was the last voice he wanted to hear right now because no, not Banner, not Bruce, not him, not here, he couldn’t run, he couldn’t even stand up and those guys were bad news, they’d try something stupid and he would pay the price. He could see what was happening, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to see but those guys were tall and had broad stances and he was lying on the ground, he had a strangely contorted view but it still felt like a fucking first row seat.  
Banner stood there, looking ruffled and crumbled and nerdy. His hair was all over the place and he put the package down beside him -- nice, yellow and red wrapping paper -- and took his glasses of, putting them in his front pocket. “I beg you: Stop that now and no one needs to get hurt. But I am kinda angry right now and you. Won’t. Like. It. When. I. Am. Angry. Not one bit, I can promise you that.”

“Bruce…” His lips formed the word but he couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t say it, he was scared, so scared, just like Natasha. Bruce was angry, he was angry and there was no control, what if there was no control… “Don’t… please don’t…”But no one was listening to him, no one was, they were all just staring at Bruce and then the leader lifted up his gun and pointed it right between Bruce’s eyes. “I don’t know who you are, actually I don’t care either. Get out of here, _boy,_ before you regret it. First and last chance. Save your skin.” And Clint was shivering and pleading, but he couldn’t be heard, he was so silent. Everything was just so silent.  
“Boy…well, I must say, I haven’t heard _that_ one in… oh quite some time. You know who he belongs to? You must, coming after him with so many people, making a pretty good Gordon Freeman impression…” He came closer, his hands up in the air. “I am trying to be the responsible adult here, _boy_. Give me my friend. Everyone walks away more or less u-” Bruce couldn’t even finish whatever nice words he would have said next. There was just another BANG and Clint managed to scream “No!” and he knew it was too late, he didn’t even need to see the impact of the bullet on Bruce’s forehead to know it was all too late.  
There was the ripping of clothes and the sound of bones bursting and flesh stretching, stretching…. all too much, way too much, there shouldn’t be a sound like that. Then there was a roar and it was nothing like on the surveillance-tapes, because it made _the street_ shudder. Thugs started to scream and it was just swallowed by the roar of the Hulk.

Clint couldn’t help but stare, his vision was all blurry and red and white and foggy but somehow he clung to his consciousness by his bare fingernails, by any strength he had left, watching his imminent death with morbid fascination. _So this is how it ends_ , he realized and he felt the life trickle out of his wounds and pool around him on the ground, red, so much red, and the pain of every breath, and then _it_ came closer, it made its way through the bad guys, punching and throwing them to the side like toys, like weak little dolls, unimportant, discarded, just breaking them and killing them and _smashing_ their remains. There were soft, nauseating thuds when bodies hit the brick walls. 

And then it was over him, directly over him. He could see the green head and the black hair and those angry, angry eyes and he could hear the roar that ripped right through his very existence before his entire world went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:**  
>  Pretty graphic depictions of violence, moving towards an (implied?! actual? would we really be THAT mean???) character death.
> 
> * * *
> 
> THE END!  
> Thank you folks for reading this. Now is the time that Clint dies. There would be no reason to continue after this. 
> 
> Told you there was no slash!
> 
> But there will be Bruce’s suicide. He will make it happen. He will just fly into space and then jump out of the rocket. Might he survive? We don’t know. Of course, he could come back. World War Hulk, you know the drill.
> 
> But if he’s really lucky he’ll make it to the sun and just… EXPLODE.
> 
> Well… OR you could tell us that this is not what you wanted. At all. We might be coerced. Perhaps you actually like Clint and want him to live, not being smashed by the Hulk whilst already bleeding out. We might consider it. We MIGHT. But after all… we’re evil. We’re having evil cats of evilness that ate the bunnies Feelings and Mr Cuddles.
> 
> And you know what the best part is? It’s all your own damn fault, people. Because NONE of you ever COMMENTED to give us better input for how you'd like the plot to evolve (obvious exceptions excluded, yeah, you know who you are. You got virtual cookies that weren't even a lie). 
> 
> Yeah. There you go.


	12. 11. Metal Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay. Spoiler alert: Someone isn't as dead as we made it look *cough*. He's up and about. Also, everyone is a romantic (is that good or bad?), Bruce ships Clintasha (You understand nothing, Bruce Sno-...Banner!) and plays doctor. He IS that kind of doctor. Also, there might be some creepy stuff. You know. To round things up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning**  
>  Graphic depiction of violence having taken place and its effects in the present.

  
**11\. Metal Heart**

_I once was lost but now I'm found_  
 _Was blind but now I see you_  
 _How selfish of you to believe in the meaning of all the bad dreaming_

_It's damned if you don't and it's damned if you do_  
 _Be true 'cause they'll lock you up in a sad sad zoo_  
 _Oh hidy hidy hidy what cha tryin to prove_  
 _By hidy hidy hiding you're not worth a thing_

 

**I**

Stark Tower Infirmary, NYC | September 15, 2013

_Fuck._ Bruce thought it with some surprise and emphasise. He hadn't thought they would just _shoot_ him. They weren't in his normal neighbourhood, they were in New York and he had thought than one guy would come after him, be defeated and he then might have the possibility to tell them: “Hello again. I am Bruce Banner. Also known as the Hulk. You wanna play or run?”

Now they had to play. And Bruce couldn’t even be sad about it, because he had waited in front of the shop, edgy and shuffling on his feet and then there had been that _smell_. Blood. And he had known that it was Clint’s blood and he had gone although… although that had been a phenomenally bad idea. And it had been a great idea, because Clint lay there in the middle of a fucking crowd of villains with crowbars and Bruce had really thought he might lose it when he saw that. He hadn’t, but that wasn't his own doing. Someone had touched his shoulder and he had felt the coldness, just at the far end of his mind and he had been able to _hate_ more than to actually be angry and afraid for Clint. Clint would be alright. He would make him alright when these guys were gone. And then that _moron_ had shot him. _'Fuck'_  
And then there was just the rage, the rage that put out everything else. It was a forced change and Bruce had never gotten to know much about what happened there, he just got snippets that made it through the rage and the screaming in his own head. The feeling of warm, soft bodies, that he threw aside. _Puny, weak! Can't hurt Hulk!_ The stink of blood, uh so much blood. _Little shoot-shoot. Fight with Hulk!_ He roared and he screamed and he made the world shudder and break. The world was weak, puny. Ground and brick walls and _men_. _Look at Hulk! Run!_  
But little Shoot-Shoot didn't fight. He had to fight. He had to fight with Hulk! With Hulk or against him, that was easy, that he knew! People fought. People did nothing else. They wanted to hurt Hulk, wanted to hurt Banner. But people puny! And then they fought with him! At his side! Wanted to smash with him! Little shiny man did. Not-so-little blond man did. Hammer-man did too. Was strong too. For man. Puny for Hulk.  
But he HURT now. He HURT. And he wanted it to stop. No one hurts Hulk and why did Shoot-Shoot not _help_?  
He _roared_ at Shoot-Shoot and Shoot-Shoot did not move. He smelled of blood, of fight and fear and – DID NOT MOVE! Hulk roared like he had roared at Shiny Man, but nothing happened. He tipped Shoot-Shoot with his finger and Shoot-Shoot rolled to the side, not moving.  
Hulk huffed. He looked around. Shoot-Shoot was _down_. Shoot-Shoot could stay, he would run, run far away, leap into the sky. Was like flying.  
 _“No you won't, you big green baby.”_ Banner stood there on the ground, stood beside Shoot-Shoot and that should not have been possible. Not Banner, when there was Hulk! He roared again and Banner tipped his head in the neck and _roared back_! It was in Hulk’s head. No buildings moved but it was not PUNY, no it was not. Banner smiled at him then. Hulk hunched. He wanted to lie down, he wanted the NOISE to stop! Too loud! Shaking Hulk’s head! Bursting it! Banner stood between Hulk and Shoot-Shoot, smiling. _“You’ve had your temper-tantrum, my boy. Now we need Bruce. Fixing people is neither your nor my expertise, son.”_  
Hulk would NOT go, Hulk would not listen to strange Banner-man and -  
 _“Schhhhhhhh....”_ Banner came nearer and put a hand on his knee. _“You did really good today. I am so proud of you, my boy. But now you need to sleep. It is alright. I will look after him. No one will hurt him today. I promise. You and I – we work together, remember? We are the ones who protect.”_  
Hulk remembered. He closed his eyes and concentrated on that voice and the hand that was not really there.  
Hulk knew that the man was smiling and he knew that smile was sad. _“I wish I could sing to you, my boy.”_ The hand patted his cheek, though the man had to be way down and tiny. Hulk did not care. He just huffed. _“But there is only one song I know. And you wouldn't like that one. So just sleep. Go to sleep, my boy, you earned it. I am so, SO proud of you, little one.”_

Bruce blinked into the light. The Hulk hummed contently in the back of his mind and he looked around like someone else should have been there, but of course there was _no one_.  
No one but Clint. “Oh no. Nononononono!” He ran over to archer who lay there so, so quietly... The Other Guy might have hurt him. Oh no… that just couldn't happen! He would not let it happen!  
He went down on his knees and he _forced_ himself to function. He cradled Clint’s head onto his lap, looked into his eyes, took his pulse. _Two bullets. Right through him._ Bruce let his fingers dance, light touches and then he knew about two broken ribs and some minor things and yes, yes, he could work with that, he really could. He knew SHIELD would be here any minute. A Hulk-out would be hard to miss. Barton just needed to stay put a little while longer and then there would be all they needed to treat him properly. Bruce dragged two of the bodies closer and ripped the shirts off. He made a pressure bandage out of it, clothed himself hastily in bloody trousers and a shirt. (He tried not to look, not to _feel_ how squishy the body was under his fingers, but he knew, he _knew_ it was his doing and it was wrong, oh so wrong...)

He pressed the bandage on Clint’s wounds and then the agents came running and put him on a stretcher and he stuck close and ignored people looking at him scaredly. He sat down in the car, sat down beside Clint and kept pressing a hand on his chest, on the bloody bandage.  
One of the paramedics pulled a needle out of somewhere and Bruce watched himself, closing a hand around the guy’s wrist. “No,” he said, calm and tired. “No needles. He does not like them.”  
“That is not important right now, Mr Banner, Sir, it -”  
“It is _Doctor_ Banner.” He smiled up and he could see how the guy got all squirmish. “Here is what we’re gonna do, boy: We will get Agent Hawkeye back to Stark Tower and into the facilities for this kind of emergency. You will get me everything I ask for and then you will leave and I will treat Agent Hawkeye. Do you understand?”

It might have been the fact that the guy had just seen a lot of bodies out there – bodies that were killed by Hulk which might be something that would be put down on insurances in New York sometime soon. Bruce could smell the fear radiating from that guy and he smiled up at him to calm him down again. “It's alright, boy. I know what I am doing.”  
Actually he didn't. But he knew that Clint was afraid of needles and he knew what it was like to be forced to something while you were out. He wouldn't make Clint realise that he had been too helpless to prevent needles. He could work around that. He hoped it was alright if he treated Clint. He probably wasn't just some physician and he wouldn't put on a white coat. He didn't know if that would be enough. He really didn't.  
It was some kind of rush after that. Clint was being taken in a special room at the Stark Tower, Bruce disinfected his hands and then started to work, to stitch the wounds, clean Clint's Body, reducing the fractured ribs, putting some of his own ointments and salves on the wounds and then making a bandage around the ribcage that was stiff enough to allow the ribs to heal and flexible enough that Clint would still be able to walk around, breathe and do other stupid stuff that he really should not be doing in his condition.  
When he was finished with that, he pushed a strand of sweat-wet-hair out of Clint's face and turned around. “Natasha.”

He had smelled her as soon as she had come in, ready to strike or kill any paramedic or doctor who dared treat Clint wrongly, and he had realized how she froze on the spot and just waited, silently, watching his every move like a hawk. _How very fitting._ When she came closer, now that he finally had acknowledged her presence, he could see her hands trembling ever so slightly. She was keeping it together astonishingly well. Brave, sad girl. But there was something in her eyes, a murderous glint that just seemed unnaturally dark. “What happened?” Her voice was soft and calm, as if she was talking about the weather.  
Bruce rubbed his hands against a white cloth, trying to get rid of the blood. “We were shopping,” he said finally. “Something was wrong. He noticed it, I didn’t. So it was probably meant for him. He told me to go into the shop, he would take care of something. When I came back out he was surrounded by… well. A lot of people beating him up with crowbars. One of these geniuses shot me. That’s pretty much it.”

It was as if he’d talked to the wall. Natasha showed no emotional reaction whatsoever, staying unnaturally calm. What had happened to that woman that made her so hard, so self-possessed and self-constrained that she couldn’t even shed a tear or let herself go for a few seconds? “Crowbars sounds just like it was meant for him, yes,” she answered flatly. “How many people? We counted sixteen down. Those all of them or did someone get away?”  
Bruce closed his eyes and pulled the scene back up. He remembered every stone in the brickwall, he remembered it like he was looking at a picture and then he remembered the bodies lying there later, while he was tending to Clint. He opened his eyes again, focussing on Natasha. “One got away. The guy who shot me, I think. He was the only one with a mask.” He looked at Natasha and then motioned her to get closer. When she complied, he took Clint’s hand and put it in hers. Bruce squeezed Natashas shoulder. “I need to shower and change into clothes that I didn’t take from a dead man. You stay here and hold his hand. Doctor’s orders.”

Again, Natasha didn’t object or react emotionally, at least not on the outside. She just pulled a chair over and sat down next to Clint. When Bruce turned around at the doorway, however, he could see her leaning forward and pressing a kiss on Clint’s forehead, whispering something under her breath and humming a little song, Russian, he thought. Something soothing. Her shoulders were less tense than usually, as if she couldn’t hold it together just as well as he’d thought after all. Maybe it had just been a show for him. A last desperate attempt to keep her dignity, to act as though she didn’t care when in fact she was deeply injured herself. This was personal. And she didn’t want to show it.  
Bruce stood in the door and looked at them both and he knew it wasn’t his place to say something and he knew it wasn’t his goddamn business, but… well. He somehow felt like it was. He felt annoyed by the fact that they just couldn’t get their act together and be _happy_. They could be. They had all the chances, all the possibilities and they just decided to _not fucking risk it_.  
“You know…”, he heard himself saying, although he really shouldn’t say anything at all. “I don’t understand you two. You love each other. And yet it seems you never got over the kindergarden-phase with the hair-pulling and the ‘he-doesn’t-like-me-that-way’. Let me make that clear: You two do like each other that way. You are _good_ for each other. It may not be for eternity and there might be other difficulties, but I don’t care. And you won’t either one of these days, when it really is too late.”

“You know what the worst part of our job is, Dr Banner?” If he had startled her, it didn’t show. Maybe she had known he was still there all along and decided to ignore the fact.  
“If I had to guess I’d say the crappy pension-plan.” 

“And that is why you will never understand,” she said, being mysterious on purpose, he was sure of it. A smile formed on her lips, but it was no happy smile, it was a cold smile, a killer’s smile, like the one a cat might have for a mouse while she said ‘Oh, hello love. Didn’t see you there. Wanna join me for dinner?’  
“And neither will you.” Bruce sighed. “One of these days, I’ll make a compilation with all the looks you throw each other, put a sad song in the background and make you see some sense. But what do I know? I am just the guy with the degree in anger-management.”

She chuckled. “You think we didn’t give it a shot. You think we never… tried it. Took the leap of faith. Well we did and we… don’t work that way. We need our head in the game. When we’re out there, I can’t have Clint worry about me getting in danger and I can’t worry about him because worries, feelings, _attachments_ \- they’re pulling you down and sooner or later, they kill you.”  
Now it was at Bruce to chuckle. It was a sad sound. So it really was just _that_ , was it now? They made him sick sometimes. They made it so complicated, when it wasn’t complicated at all. “So you’re sitting here because you do not worry? I can tell you a little something about feelings, Agent Romanov: You can push them in the background. You can make them a little white noise, that is constantly there and somehow not at the same time, but they won’t go away. You are in love with him. He is in love with you. When you are out there you will always worry and the only thing you’re changing now is that you have to look at each others’ life through a window. You are torturing yourselves and it doesn’t help anyone. Be afraid of love, if you want to. It doesn’t make it go away.“ 

“I don’t worry about him when we are out there, I trust in his abilities, I trust that I trained him well enough to make him safe and if that isn’t enough, then that’s how things are,” she explained as if she was talking to a little child. “That is it what good people like you will possibly never understand. _Because_ we stay apart we can be _partners_. We can’t be both, we tried, we failed. The moment I let him in completely, I make him my number one priority, I can’t do this job any more. I can’t let him lie somewhere and bleed out while I fulfill the mission. I can’t watch him go undercover and seduce a sociopath or another killer or just a movie star, because it will _kill_ me. We are no _heroes_ , Doctor. We are _agents_. We do the dirty work if need be. We make the tough calls. When he was taken by Loki, all I wanted to do was go out there and search for him. Make him safe. Bring him home. You know what I did? I obeyed orders. I brought _you_ in instead, the last person I wanted to have around to complicate things. I sat in the Helicarrier doing nothing of use and waited and waited until I finally got my okay to go get him back. And he would have done the same for me - stand on the sideline if need be, wait for the order and just hope that maybe, maybe he’d get me back safe.”

Bruce looked at her, really looked and all he could see was a little girl, afraid of the darkness. She was strong. She was tough and a killer and the only thing on the world she was afraid of might have been him. But really: She was just a small girl, broken and little and… _puny._ Bruce sighed. He stayed in the doorway for a little while longer and he looked at these two _kids_. “Obedience is such a nice way to not get hurt, isn’t it?” he asked calmly, making it more a statement than anything else.

“Love is for children.” Natasha said it as if it were the truth, as if she had no heart at all. “We have more than love. We have trust. Yes, I care for him, more than I care to admit. And trust me, whoever did this to him… they will pay. They will wish the Hulk had gotten them too by the time I’m done with them. But I can’t give him what he deserves and he can’t give me what I need. Not really. Not while being my partner.”If she was uncomfortable or frustrated or sad, it didn’t show in that beautiful, flawless mask of hers. Was she really this ice-cold? Could she be this arbitrary, one hand ready to shoot someone while the other one was still wrapped around Clint’s?  
“Of course it is.” Bruce laughed. “Have you never known, Agent? To children everything is tall and hard and unrelenting. They are full of fear and full of love and they are brave for it and get hurt all the time. And then we grow up and we pretend that that isn’t the case anymore, that we are as tall as the world and as hard. We fight love like we fight fear. Some of us run. Some of us obey. We search for new words, but there is one thing we will always be: _Puny._ Puny and small and hurt.”

“People underestimate you, Bruce.” She smiled. “You are a true romantic, aren’t you? Hoping for a happy end and for love to be true and for bad people to have a shot at happiness that they don’t deserve. Just so that you can see a little glance of paradise that you fear you’ll never have yourself.”  
“And people overestimate you, Natasha.” He smiled and then turned around to go take that shower. “You are a romantic, too.”

She laughed. She honestly laughed at him and it didn’t even sound faked, just sad. “Of course I am. Clint is, too. Far more than I am, actually. Doesn’t mean we’re good people or meant for happiness. You should really get that shower, Doctor. Save the therapy for people who don’t know you’re NOT that kind of a doctor.”  
Bruce didn’t answer, just put his hand in the air and waved. He found the nearest shower and he just stood there, while blood and filth loosened and left his body new and unharmed except for scars that were too old to be healed. His fingers danced over the big, red one over his belly, partly hidden by his curly hair. Oh yes, he had always been a romantic, hadn’t he? Romantic and depressed, these two went together very well. Just not for him. The one time he hadn’t thought about… about just _ending_ everything had been when he had been happy in love. When he had had Betty. When there had been just her and him and he had known that he could make her happy, make her smile and that she didn’t see any of the darkness he tried to hide away. 

He hummed under his breath while he remembered the shot and that feeling of agony and pain and dullness that was just out of his reach, this short _idea_ of an end to all this. “ _Every day I see you looking in / I'll be the smoothest thing to touch your skin / You're longing to be loved but you're alone/ N' your longing makes you shiver to the bone._ ” He leaned against the wall, let the water run over his face and he hummed and the water went into his mouth and for a moment it felt like he was drowning. Oh how he wished that he could drown… “ _I know your mama told you nothing of importance/ No your daddy taught you nothing you could learn / Stop shaking, sweating, whining and regretting / You're making a scene that is gonna get you caught / Hey look me in the barrel and tell me that you love me / Yes this is a kiss that I swear will blow your mind..._ ” 

He finished the song and he didn’t drown. He just sighed and let himself sob for one moment. He didn’t know exactly what made him feel this way, what made him weak and sad and just so goddamn tired. Ten years he had been running and it had… well. Yes. It had been this bad. It had also been better at times.  
 _It is because I care._ Natasha was right: Caring left you raw and open and _needing_ and helpless. He understood that. But still… it was better than feeling nothing at all. It was better than being numb and cold and shivering, going through the motions. He had been there too. Long before the Hulk. And that was a nightmare he never wanted to be a part of again.  
Bruce put on one of the Stark-Tech-Training-Suits that was in a wardrobe and went back to the room, his hair still wet and even more curly than usual. 

Natasha was sitting on the side of Clint’s bed by now, her feet on the chair and her eyes fixated on Clint’s face. This was hell on her, but she was smiling nevertheless, that strange, cold smile, bitter-sweet and gentle and promising of torture and death and any nightmare she could concoct. She was ready for revenge, and yet she looked like an angel, innocent and smiling and wide-eyed. Bruce knew this kind of look. He could almost hear her whispering something soothing. He could almost see another figure beside her, smiling that same smile and telling him that love and hatred was one and that he would make it alright again. Everything would be alright. One of her hands lay on Clint’s chest, the other one was pressing her mobile phone against her ear. “Yes, Sir, I understand. No, Sir, I don’t think that’ll be… yes. I will get straight to it.”  
She hung up and turned around, not the least surprised to see Bruce. “You do smell better, Doctor,” she smiled calmly. “Would you mind sitting with Clint for a while longer? Just so he isn’t alone when he wakes up, he doesn’t exactly… respond well to medical facilities. Or hospital beds. Or…” She shrugged. “Any of this, actually.” 

Without waiting for an answer, she was already halfway out the door, when she turned back nevertheless. “Bruce…” Natasha bit her lower lip, frowning a little bit as if she was fighting against her better judgement, before she brought herself to say it anyhow. “Listen. You are right about us. You are so right. Clint is my one… weakness. The one big weakness I never wanted to allow myself to have. He never cared who I was or where I came from, he saw me and he accepted me and he saw the good when I…” She gulped. “My point is, we don’t exactly show this publicly. We don’t because in our line of work… we make enemies. Especially I, I’ve been in this a little while longer than him and I… made a name for myself. Before I met Clint I was… another person. And now I am scared whenever something like this happens because, well… We tried to keep it a secret, for a while, and we screwed up. Now SHIELD knows and if Fury was foolish enough to put it in some file somewhere, it sure as hell is out there for anyone to find. So I am scared, yes. I am scared that one day one of those people whom I owe a great deal of pain to will figure out the best, the only way actually, to make me suffer that is more effective than just plain out torturing me - and that’s hurting _him_. They might one day figure out that to get to either one of us, all they have to do is hurt the other one. And so, every time something like this happens I stop and I ask myself if this is the time. If this time it is all my fault, my red ledger catching up with me and burning him instead. I can’t take any more risks with him than I am already taking. And showing affection towards him, like we do it here, in the Tower, where you guys can see us… it is a luxury we don’t get elsewhere. Don’t think we’re torturing each other for nothing because that’s not… that’s not how it works. By showing you how we feel we put our trusts in you. And by staying away from each other we’re chosing the one way we can deal with this and not… break.” She sighed. “That’s really… all. I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“I am sorry for being a mean old man.” Bruce sat down beside Clint, checked his stats and then looked back at Natasha again. “I understand that, you know? That you don’t want to be the reason for anything to happen, but some day it might happen nevertheless. Maybe because of you. Maybe not. He is a little bit of a reckless idiot, he might just fall down somewhere. Life is short. You should reevaluate if it isn’t worth the risk to actually… be happy for some time. Happiness is always linked with the possibility of pain. But it is worth it.”

“You still don’t get it.” She came back to the bed, mussing up Clint’s hair. “I _am_ happy. Being with him I am the happiest I’ve been in… ages.” She let it sound as if she was talking half a century. And she looked sincere. That was odd because Natasha usually wasn’t one to exaggerate.  
“And do you think he is happy?” Bruce put his hand on Natasha’s shoulder. “Because all I can see in his look is longing. And knowing him he might think that he is not good enough. Knowing him he _hurts_ every time you even look at another man. How did he react after we danced?”

“He actually made a joke, Bruce. It’s not that I wouldn’t let him come closer, you know. _He_ pushed _me_ away. As soon as I got too close he flinched back and he kept it professionell. He’s a risk-taker but he’s also got some good instincts. He knows how to play with the fire without getting burnt. What do you think I feel whenever he’s taking home one of these little girls he’s never keeping longer than a few nights?” She smirked. “That’s the difference between sex and trust. We can’t have both, so we choose to have the better half of what we want.”

“No he doesn’t, don’t be such a sentimental fool.” Bruce tipped a finger against her forehead. “He is an oblivious idiot and he has been hurt a lot of times. I suppose. He feels warmth and he flinches away. Doesn’t matter if it is a good or a bad fire. I just didn’t take in consideration that you are also just as stubborn and afraid of some things. Think it over, agent. Sex and trust - if you think you can’t have these both together, I really weep for you. And that comes from the guy who has invented trust-issues.”  
Black Widow shook her head. “I’ve got to go. Duty calls. Whoever wanted him hurt, they’re still out there and we don’t know anything about them yet. Keep him safe for me, until I return?”  
Bruce saluted. Really, this whole thing wasn’t his area of expertise. Why weren’t there any books on how to heal broken hearts? He smiled and then started watching Clint in his slumber. 

When she was halfway through the door again, Natasha turned back. “Get Steve to relieve you in between. You look like you could use some sleep, Bruce.” There was only the faintest smile on her lips, maybe an unspoken ‘I like you’, he couldn’t be sure, just before she was out the door and gone. Natasha, unfortunately, wasn’t the kind of girl to speak of her emotions.  
Bruce bent over Clint when she was gone and whispered, while he was checking his pulse: “It would probably be for the best if I just scared her to death again, don’t you think? Much easier to talk with her then. Of course it would be mean. I am trying to be nicer to her.”  
He received no answer, but well. He pulled a StarkPad out of the nightstand, logged in and searched through the shops until he found what he was looking for. “Jarvis? Please let that be delivered here.”  
He wouldn’t leave. Steve would just let the doctors get near. No doctors. No white coats, no needles. Something crunched in him. He petted Clint’s hair. “I really don’t know what I am doing here.”, he said and sighed again. “Hope it is the right call, though.”

He couldn’t exactly tell how much time had passed when Clint woke up for the first time, shifting under his covers, an almost inaudible sound on his lips, somewhere between a sigh and a moan and yet possibly the most agonized noise Bruce had ever heard.  
“Open your mouth,” he said and he tried to be calm about it. He had a glass of water ready with painkillers in it. Would have been easier to just use a goddamn needle, but well. “It’s for the pain. It will taste bitter, but it should go down easily enough. Make you sleepy too.” He cradled Clint’s neck with one hand. 

Clint reared up, falling back with a little cry, but he shook his head, stubborn idiot that he was, clenching his teeth and trying to keep it all down, trying to be a brave little ninja, trying his best to act as though he was in no pain at all, to breathe, to lie there calmly.  
“Stop it.” Bruce rolled his eyes. Seriously. This guy was just… could he not ONCE in his life accept that he was in pain and needed someone to help him? That he was not _alright_? “Drink this and stop fighting the pain down or I swear to God, I will get nee-” Okay, so he couldn’t bring himself to say that at all. It was too cruel and he knew it. So he sighed, let his hand rest on Barton’s neck and tried another approach. “Agent… open your mouth and take your medicine. It’s an order.”

Clint breathed out through his clenched teeth, it sounded more like a hiss than an actual breath. “I… don’t… take… orders…. ffff… ” When he had come this far, he just grimaced, groaned and lay there contorting, big baby that he was, too stubborn for his own good..  
“Clint… please?” Clint’s eyes flickered over Bruce’s face as if he just now realized who was standing there, over him. There was a lot of doubt mixed in the pain, a lot of fear. He looked like a little child that was begging to please, please not hurt him, but somehow, he also got a little less tense.  
“I swear it will be ok. I’ll be here. I’ll make it better. Healer-complex, remember?”

Clint closed his eyes for a few seconds as if fighting the urge to just run out, which he obviously couldn’t do, now, could he, with the two bullet-wounds in his body and the broken ribs, but for a second it almost seemed to be an actual possibility. And then, hesitantly, he looked at Bruce again with that strange mix of fear, pain and slowly growing trust and he opened his mouth and allowed the doctor to pour the liquid into his mouth, swallowing it down, trembling all the time as if this were a physically painful thing to do, as if he had to bring himself to do this by sheer power of will.  
“I got you a bunny,” Bruce told him, just to make him smile, just to take his mind of the fact that he lay in a hospital bed, broken and hurt. He put it beside Barton: A big, plushy, green, stuffed bunny. “May I introduce you to Feelings?”  
Clint seemed to be pretty out of it, foggy at best, but he smiled at Bruce in that painful, soft way that comes with exhaustion and sickness, he lifted one of his arms up, nevermind the blue and purple contusions all over it, held the bunny’s leg with one of his hands as if Bruce had thrown him a life belt. “Thanks, sweetcheeks,” he murmured. “Bruce, I’m sorry… sorry…”  
“What for?” Bruce sighed and put a hand over Barton’s mouth before the guy could say something again that would just make everything harder. “ _I_ am sorry. I hadn’t thought he would actually just plain shoot me. It was….I think I’m getting a little bit too cocky.”

Barton murmured something against his hand. Maybe an explanation or another dumb-ass apology, but it was impossible to understand like this.  
Bruce smiled down at him, then just shook his head and took his hand away. He was hoping that Barton would be… well. Reasonable. For once in his life. He looked down at the archer and he thought about telling him about Tasha, about what they had said, but really… it wasn’t his place and that just wouldn’t help. He knew it. So he sighed, stretched his legs and pushed a strand of Barton’s hair aside. “You are so _young_ ” he said, wondering mildly.  
“... my fault…” Barton mumbled. “Should have known… backup… sorry,” and then again, just as if this wasn’t enough, he repeated, “sorry.” His skin was feverish, burning up rapidly, his clothes drenched with sweat.  
“You’re so pretty Barton and then you destroy it with opening your mouth and talking…. like that.” Bruce sighed just again. He felt like a father, sitting at the bed of its sick child while the child told him it was sorry for the inconvenience. “It was not your fault, Barton. It was mine. I should have been able to get you out of there without… well. I still don’t know why the other guy did not kill you. I am one lousy back-up and I know it, but don’t you dare put that on your fragile, _broken_ shoulders!”

“... no.” It was a quiet ‘no’, too weak for actual rebellion, a tiny, miniature ‘no’, almost begging to be understood and taken seriously.  
Bruce sighed again. “Look… I know it is your job to do this. It is your job, to… I don’t know. Take out the bad guys. You couldn’t in this instance and that’s that. I don’t know why you are apologizing to me. Really, I am at a loss. Nothing happened to me, Barton. Wasn’t the first time I got a bullet to my head. I delivered one of them myself and I can tell you, the feeling is nearly soothing. Before something in me decides that I should not be allowed to just die.”

Barton’s speech was slurred, obscure with pain and far too flat breathing because of his broken ribs, but his consciousness seemed to slowly come back to him. “My job… invol… ves… risk assess… ment.” He pressed his lips together as if to suppress another groan, while he tried pushing himself up in the bed, to get in a half-sitting position. “I screwed… up. Should have… known… better. Thought… six guys. Maybe… eight. Were… more.” He was extremely pale, but he seemed to be determined to have this discussion right here, right now, because of course, there was no better time to do this than right now. “I was the… cocky… one. Stupid... dumb.” He grimaced, groaned again. “Sh…. sorry. They were after… me. Shouldn’t… dragged… you… into it.” Slowly, the analgesics seemed to kick in enough for him to follow halfway normal sentences.  
“Hey…. hey little bird…” Bruce put his hand around Clint’s chin and forced him to look at him, before sleep could claim him. He needed him to hear this, before he went out cold. “I am the third most intelligent human being - in the widest sense of the word. And I am indestructible. You can’t _drag_ me into something I wouldn’t be able to handle.”

“... but you _hate_...” Clint still looked like a kicked puppy. “You try so hard… no civilians…” His eyelids were getting heavier, falling shut and flickering open and falling shut again, each new flicker seemed to take more strength. “Tell… Tash… tell her To-…” His head rolled to the side, unable to say that last word, to give out that last message that might have been awfully important to him. He was fast asleep.

And he was right, of course he was right. No civilians. No anybody. He didn’t want to hurt someone and he could _see_ the bodies, he could _feel_ how smashed and boneless they had felt. But that were his demons. He didn’t need Clint to fight with them.  
“It’s good to see you accepting your Feelings. Or mine at the very least,” Bruce muttered and put the stuffed bunny in Barton’s arms. After that, he felt sleep claiming him, too, and he didn’t object to the soothing voice in the back of his mind.

  
**II**

Stark Tower Infirmary, NYC | September 15-16, 2013

 

_Pain, a sea of pain, an entire ocean of agony, pushing him back and forth, back and forth. Clint had lost every touch with reality, every last sense of time or space. He was floating, adrift, disoriented, he had no idea what was happening to him but he didn’t care, anyways. There was just him, him and the pain and the panic that was pulling him down, suffocating him, until it vanished in a white fog and he stopped caring even about the fear. Suddenly he felt light-headed, strangely soft and cloudy. There were dreams, but he couldn’t quite grasp them. Dreams of people. Dreams of things long forgotten and things he remembered and things he’d never seen before. But he wasn’t scared anymore, he was just tired and heavy and light and wide awake and then there were the clouds again, and heat and cold and heat and cold rushing through his veins. And dreams, so many dreams, colourful and strange and all fuzzy. Whenever he reached out for them, for those plain faces behind the mist, they drifted away, washed away in the constant tide of his pain as it grew again, tossing him around, and he heard someone screaming, screaming, but he didn’t know who it was, and there was a tube in his throat and it felt so raw, so dry, he needed to breathe but he couldn’t and there were hot drills penetrating his thorax and his belly, up and down, up and down, and there was some sort of constant beeping and that strange smell, he knew that smell and he _hated_ it because it meant pain and death and sickness and more pain, pain that would never stop, and suddenly he grew scared again, scared because he knew what that was, he knew it, he just couldn’t grasp what it was, the word escaped him but he knew what it was and it was his worst nightmare._

He woke up for a short moment and there was no one but Banner there. He could see his mess of curly locks, casting a shadow over the bed. Banner had something in his hand. Was that a _needle_? Clint tried to rear up but his limbs were all heavy and his head was cloudy and it was as if he was floating somewhere at the ceiling, looking down on himself and on Banner and he wanted to scream or to sob or to beg to _please, please, no, don’t hurt me, don’t do this to me, please make it stop, make it stop---_  
“Psssssssch.... it’s alright, little wild one.” Banner bent over the bed and put a hand on Clint’s forehead. His fingers were icy cold and his voice sweet and soothing. “I am just taking a few precautions. Don’t want to damage you in the future.”  
There was a _sting_ on his arm and there was no way that he would let that happen, not even in his mind-fogged state and he tried to flounce in his bed but there was no strength in him, nothing left and – and then Banner petted his head. He put his fingers in his hair and pretty much pretended that Clint was a big dog. His fingers curled and pulled and it was oddly relaxing, even with the burning sensation that started spreading through his arm, shooting up towards his heart, taking over. He didn’t even mind the pain, he was too weak and too tired and he had a happy place because he could just concentrate on Banner’s hand instead, petting him, mussing up his hair.

“You’re alright. I will look after you. No one will get to you, I promise. I'll be here and scare them away. There will be no doctors, no pain, no fear. Just sleep. You really need to sleep, little wild one.”  
Bruce started humming and damn, that voice was soothing, as were the fingers in his hair. It sounded like he meant it and like it was the truth, an unchangeable fact, that nothing bad would happen to him, as long as that scruffy, nerdy guy was there, watching over him like a father over a sick child. He believed him and when he slipped over into sleep again, there was the faintest feeling of a kiss on his forehead and a low chuckle and the feeling of trust that had helped him earlier, too, the knowledge that Banner wouldn’t hurt him, Banner was looking after him and it would be fine, _it will all be f…_

  
**III**

Zemo’s base, NYC | approximately at the same time

He was stading in his chambers and throwing stuff around. He cursed and screamed and he wanted to hurt someone. Barton had been _his_ , had been at his mercy and it had been sweet and wonderful and then that _guy_ had showed up. Normal people at least had the manners to just DIE when you shot them. But this one… no. Rude. Fucking AMERICANS! 

  
Bruce Banner. He had looked his name up, the true name of the Hulk. His identity was publicly known, there was a fucking Wikipedia-article about him, with pictures and everything. Dr. Dr. Dr. Robert Bruce Banner.  
He had looked at that picture of the guy and he knew that that guy reminded him of someone but he couldn’t tell and that was nearly as infuriating as the fact, that he had just smashed all his minions. It became hard to hire people when they tended to get smashed to blood-slurry.  
“You have failed, I assume.”  
The voice was sweet like over-sugared café-au-lait. He shuddered. But he was angry too and he was no tool to be pushed around, he was not Barton. So he turned around and hissed at the cloaked figure in the entrance. “Wasn’t exactly my fault, was it? How was I to know that a green monstrosity would turn up there? No one told me that Barton had befriended the fucking Hulk.”  
“Such obscenities.” The figure tsked and sounded amused. “You failed me. You had an easy enough task, I believe and you didn’t plan accordingly. They say you _shot_ him, made this whole disaster happen. How _naughty_ of you.”  
The figure stepped closer and now there was that smell too, the terribly sweet smell like barbeque and -  
Swordsman stumbled over his own thoughts. His hand flew to his chest, to the place with the scars. He remembered the smell of barbeque. He remembered a sweetened voice and a face, BANNER’s face, but different somehow, colder and more playful, the stuff of nightmares really. His nightmares.  
 _Finally._  
He looked at the cloaked figure and he smiled, his hand still on his chest. “I won’t underestimate them again, Sir.” His smile became crooked and he felt the hate in him. “I will burn the hearts out of them.”  
The cloaked figure chuckled. “Well, that sounds fairly amusing. Entertain me then. And be good at it. Or I might play with you and use you to show Barton the fate of his loved ones. Just an example to get his imagination running.”  
Swordsman shuddered. He couldn’t help it. “Oui, Sir. I’ll… I won’t disappoint.”

  
**IV**

Stark Tower Infirmary, NYC | September 16, 2013

Bruce was at his side when he woke up, he was curled up in a chair dressed in some sort of tracksuit. He had fallen asleep with his upper body on the end of Clint’s bed, his head resting on Clint’s lower legs and his hands touching his knees. They were the first thing he’d felt, even before he opened his eyes, before the pain kicked back in, this soothing proximity and warmth spreading through his legs, the knowledge that he wasn’t alone, that someone was there and was taking care of him.

Clint turned his head and only seconds later, Natasha stood next to him, tensed as if she’d been pacing for hours. Her face didn’t give her away, it never did, but there was the smallest sparkle in her eyes and he knew how glad she was to see him awake. She put his hand on the remote control for the bed and his finger on the correct button because she _knew_ , she knew how it felt to wake up with two holes in your body and several cracked ribs, she’d been there, she’d been fighting for every single breath, too, some other times already. By raising the top part of his bed, however, he woke Banner up and he felt immediately sorry for that. The guy looked like crap. Much like Barton was feeling, actually.

“Welcome back, moron,” Tasha whispered tenderly and he knew, she wouldn’t say any more than that, no ‘I love you’ or ‘I was so worried’ or ‘I’m gonna kill those sons of bitches who dared touch you’ because he knew all that and because Bruce was there and because she was proud, too proud and too careful and too guarded to show her feelings. But they were there, in her eyes and in her hand that touched his cheek ever so kindly. He smiled back up at her, gave her that cocky little smile she’d been waiting for that told her how he was _fine_ or would be fine as soon as he got out of here.

And that was about the entire break he got. “One of these days, I’m gonna kill you, idiot, unless you manage to do that yourself.” From one second to the next, Natasha looked furious. “What were you _thinking_? Because looking at the crime scene suggests you weren’t thinking at all. Hell, Barton, I taught you better than that, Phil taught you better than that! Odds like this, and you don’t stand around, you don’t play the fucking mule that kicks and screams and takes the bullets and all the blows.” – “ _Tash…_ ” – “No, _you_ shut up and listen.” Her voice was still angry, so angry, and that was how he knew he wasn’t in any real trouble. She just needed to get it off her chest, this was her way of getting it out there, of dealing with the anger and the frustration and all the hurt of watching him in this feeble state and the guilt because she hadn’t been there to have his back. Were it the other way around, he would have been in the gym later on, punching away at something until his knuckles were bleeding. They had different tactics, but their reasons were the same. They were _partners_. And both of them were better than this, better than just getting beat up in some dark corner and almost bleeding to death. “You RUN. And don’t give me crap about ‘it was too far’ or ‘I wouldn’t have made that’ because you were standing three steps away from the damn brick wall and only two steps away from the container when the first bullet hit you. Yes,” she shot at Bruce before he could intercept her, not giving a damn what he was going to say, “SHIELD forensis is THAT good.”

“I knew I wasn’t going to die,” Clint tried to explain to her. His voice sounded all hoarse and cracked and it burned in his throat, so she reached to his bedside-table and put a glass at his lips so that he could drink. No matter how angry her voice, her hands were soft and soothing and cool and when she let go of his head, her fingertips stroked his hair in a very gentle way. Natasha waited until he was finished, as if she’d hit pause in the conversation, before snorting. “Oh, that’s comforting. So they were just going to beat you senseless, I’d stick around for that, too.” Clint sighed and regretted it the moment his chest moved up. But he wouldn’t ask for meds. He didn’t want them, the cloudy feeling and the numbness, never again, he wanted to know what was happening to him, he needed to know and he needed to talk this through with Natasha because it wasn’t just about him. This was more important, they needed to go through this and he knew it and Natasha knew it.

“I knew it the moment I saw his mask and the gun,” Clint explained, taking his time because every single word still left a burning mark in his throat. “.22 LR, Beretta, silencer, serial number filed off.” He didn’t have to tell Natasha that this was not only one of the most common cartridges used in the world; the calibre was also pretty small. Girlie-Gun they’d call that back at the Academy and that said about everything there was to say. They didn’t say it like that to declare women couldn’t wield bigger guns (you didn’t screw like that with female SHIELD-agents, no, Sir!), but because they needed smaller weapons to hide away in their outfits when they went undercover. You could hide a small calibre weapon pretty easily. Hell, Clint owned a Walter P22 that used the same ammunition. “He knew I’d live to talk to you and he knew I’d recognize him.” – “Did you?” Clint closed his eyes and he felt the anger. It was there below all the weariness and the pain, boiling. “His voice sounded… familiar. But it’s been more than ten years, I’m sure of that, and something about it was… different. I can’t put my finger on it. I know the guy but every time I get close, he just gives me the slip and I can’t…” – “Shhh, it’s okay.” Natasha struck his hair again, calming him down. “No rush, Barton. You know him, we’ll find him. Don’t worry.” He nodded. He believed her. The fact that he knew the man was one of the strongest leads they had in finding out who had done this to him and why.

“What about the others?” – “Not your usual street-thugs. Well trained. Nobody I knew. Not high-end but damn close.” – “What the hell were you thinking?!” She crossed her arms and he could see the pain rushing through her, the guilt, but also the anger. “Why would you go out there without backup after everything I taught you, damn you Barton, sometimes I really wonder how you could make it this long because seriously..:” He interrupted her. He didn’t want to hear it, especially because it was all true to a point and because he knew she wasn’t mad at him, not exclusively, she was mad because she was so affected by this, because she had a weak spot and she hated that fact. She was thinking that she had failed him, it was there, all over her face, she was blaming herself because she had been Clint’s protective detail and she hadn’t been there when what she thought to be Ross’s first strike hit. “It’s not about… _that_ ”, he assured her with clenched teeth. “It wasn’t… _him_.” Tasha stepped closer again, putting her hand on Clint’s shoulder and squeezing as softly as she could. “You sure about that?” – “Positive. They’d use a different approach. Crowbars? Dark alley? Not a chance.” She nodded, almost feebly. The excitement and the anger were not helping her judgment and she knew that.  
“But I don’t get it, Clint. Why stick around? Why make that dumb mistake?” – “I got cocky,” he admitted. “I figured it couldn’t be _him_ , so why now of all times, I’m not working anything that would relate to that… I just wanted to know who was sending them and why.” Natasha shook her head. “You’ve always been a moron. They don’t tell you the message until you’re halfway unconscious and bleeding out, you _know_ that.”

Clint tried to push himself in a more upright sitting position and grimaced when agony ripped through his thorax, his arms, his legs even. His head felt like it had been split in half. “Actually, they sort of did.” Natasha sat down on his bedside, slightly more close-up than Banner who was still keeping to the far end of the bed, sitting in his chair and listening calmly, taking in every last bit of information. Clint didn’t know when Banner had opened his eyes but now they were opened and he shifted and pulled himself up, so that he wasn’t lying on Clint’s legs anymore. He looked tired to the core but also strangely content. 

“Okay, Clint, tell me. Whom am I killing?” She offered him a smile, that sweet smile that send shivers down his spine. Natasha wasn’t exactly the warmest person around but the calm, deadly earnestness might have given him butterflies in the stomach if he hadn’t been in so much pain that it pretty much killed his libido. She was _hot_ when she got all deadly Russian inquisition on people. Normally, that always worked for him. Not many people could be sweet and frightening at the same time. It was darn psycho and it was one of the sexiest things he’d ever seen happen. “No one. Message wasn’t for me.”

She grew pale for one second and he knew she was thinking the same thing he had thought at first. She was smart. He loved that about her. “Barton, you stupid…” – “Don’t go there.” He lifted up his arm – God, was that supposed to hurt that bad?! – and touched her hand. “He said it wasn’t for me and he pulled the trigger. Just like that. I knew I wasn’t going to make the jump up the wall, not bleeding out, so I did the next best thing I could think of and I know it was… dumb.” Natasha’s jaws were tight with fury, but not at him. “It was pretty dumb, but then again I always was the smart one and you were the brave one. Climbing six stories up with a fractured leg to save me.” He felt his ears go hot. Were they supposed to do that? It wasn’t because she’d said it, it wasn’t because of the weird compliment. He was embarrassed because Banner had heard and they usually made a point of _not_ showing people how they felt about each other. “You would have done the same…”, he mumbled sheepishly. She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. They had risked their lives for each other over and over and over again and they’d do the same thing every dumb time.

“Okay. So this is Zagreb all over again.” – “No. This is more like Tokio.” Tasha frowned, whistling through her teeth. “You sure?” Clint just nodded. He was growing tired of talking. He was growing tired of every fucking breath.  
There was a smile on Natasha’s lips, a dark, grim smile, the kind that could take on bitter sweetness and turn anyone’s heart to ice. She leaned forward, kissing Clint on the cheek before she stood up and looked at Bruce. “You know how to work a gun, Doc?” She didn’t even wait for an answer, just pulled out an only too familiar weapon and handed it over. “I got Clint’s Walther from his flat. Anyone comes through this door who’s not me, I don’t care if they’re a nurse or a doctor or freaking Fury himself, you shoot ‘em. Don’t let anyone near him.” Her hands mussed through Clint’s hair one last time. “You get some rest now. Don’t worry. If what you’re saying is true, we’ve got them. They just made their last mistake. _I’m in._ ”  
Bruce looked down at the weapon and then put it on the floor. “I’ll just look angry and stern. It worked with you.”  
She didn’t even wait for Banner’s answer, though. As soon as she had finished talking, she was already out, not even waiting for an answer to that deadly statement.

Clint looked at Bruce and realized they had been excluding the guy, especially with the last part of the conversation. Barton closed his eyes for a moment, leaning his head back onto the cushion, then he decided that he had to tell Bruce. He owed him as much for what he’d done to the guy. “Tokio 2009,” he explained with a strained, tiresome voice and watched as Bruce slid closer to him on the bed, “Tasha and I were deployed there for a mission, but that’s not what this is about. What’s important is our handler back then. You remember Phil Coulson?” He got a nod and went on. He didn’t have that much energy left and he needed to finish the story and say something else, something even more important, but on an unprofessional level which meant the story had to go first.  
“Mission is successful, but extraction team takes their sweet time, so we have half a week on our hands and nothing to do really and one night Coulson tells us he’s off to see someone and we should take a break, but keep our heads down. Back then we weren’t as close as we’re now, was our third mission and we hit some rough patches so we go out separately and when I turn left I see Coulson walk away on foot and he’s all civilian clothing and tourist-style. I know Coulson longer than Tasha, have never seen him without his suits and get curious so I follow him, keeping the high-ground, no rookie mistakes and he doesn’t notice me.” He breathed through painfully, but continued. “He’s getting in that rather dark alleyway and I figure he must be waiting for someone, but that someone never shows and Coulson gets really fidgety, really nervous like I’ve never seen him before, so after three quarters of an hour I call him and ask if everything’s fine and he realizes I’ve been watching and he’s pissed, but he doesn’t show it, just calls me down there and tells me what’s going on. See his brother is working for the NSA and is deployed to Tokio too and since we had some personal time over there Coulson wants to go meet his brother, only the brother never shows and that’s not like him. So we split up after I agree to help him look for the guy and I call Natasha in on the way to the closest ER ‘cause her Japanese is way better than mine. And we finally track down Coulson’s brother who was beat up pretty bad. He makes it but he’s in a coma so we call off the extraction team and phone NSA and do our own digging. ‘Cause, you know, Coulson wasn’t gonna let this one go and I wasn’t gonna let ‘im just go in there without back-up and Tash… Yeah, well, dunno what her reasons were back then other than that she decided she’d like a fight that she’d chosen for herself.” He grimaced again, just couldn’t help it, feeling light-headed and hot and sweaty and tired, so tired.

“I’ll spare you the details, long story short the assholes who almost killed Coulson’s brother were sending a message, but not to his brother or to his partner at NSA like we thought first. Message was for Coulson. Wasn’t work-related, it was as personal as they get and those are the hardest ones to crack because usually we don’t get that many personal enemies, ‘t’s more often ‘bout work, but once you’ve realized that it’s a… well, a ‘Tokio’, they’re pretty damn easy to take down.  
So today, I knew we were bein’ followed by three guys and I figured that it didn’t really matter who they were after ‘cause no three guys engage you on their own, not these guys, they’re not that stupid and everyone who know me knows I’m not that easy a takedown. So I figured if it’s me, it’s either the job I’m currently working or it’s ‘Zagreb’, meaning they’re on some revenge trip, but work-related. So we split up and I use both of us as bait. Look whom they’ll follow and surprise, they’re after me. Meaning it’s likely about SHIELD. And when I saw the guy in the mask I knew it wasn’t my current job, not the guy’s style, so I figured ‘Zagreb’. I was counting on six, maybe up to eight thugs. SHIELD-agents aren’t an easy takedown but yeah, well, there were seventeen guys there. That’s just overkill for SHIELD, they knew I was an Avenger and they knew my name, not just my code name or alias or whatever, so it wasn’t really work-related like that. But this can’t be about the Avengers like I thought after that, I realized that when you showed up ‘cause... Well they didn’t know you and the way they did their homework on me, they would’ve known you if it were about the team. And they told me the message wasn’t even for me and I realized this was personal, they’d done their homework on me and they’d done it good but I wasn’t the actual target… so, ‘Tokio’. It’s all about _family_ , or something close. So letting me know that was a mistake ‘cause I’m not really the most popular guy around town. Long list of people I’ve pissed off, even with enough money to hire seventeen expensive mercenaries. I mean that’s one hell of a message. How many people are close enough to me to be at the receiving end of that message?” He grinned darkly. “Damn short list.”

Exhausted, Clint closed his eyes. He wanted to go to sleep so badly, he needed rest… but there was one more thing he needed to do. “Listen, Bruce, I need to tell you something and it’s…”  
But before he could talk any further, the door to his room opened abruptly and the Thorntons came in, both ridiculously tense and both with their hands at their hips, ready to draw their guns. “Good to see you around, Barton,” David told him coldly and it didn’t exactly sound heart-felt. “Banner, you’re with us. Fury’s orders. Let’s roll.”

Bruce smiled and cocked his head. He sighed and it was heartfelt. “Of course, David. May I suggest that Maya stays here to look after Agent Barton?”  
“You may not suggest a-”  
“It is just that Agent Romanov wants him to be protected.”  
Thornton frowned. He looked at his cousin and she shrugged her shoulders, just a little bit. Then there was a nod und David Thornton put Bruce’s hands behind his back and handcuffed him. The metal click was echoing in the room.  
“What the hell, Thornton?!” Clint tried to jerk up in his bed, but the pain threw him back in right away. It was a slow fight to actually manage to sit on the edge of the bed, eyes flashing angry, and he realized he had to rip off a few cables that were stuck to his chest, measuring his heart-beat or whatever. So he just did that. He wanted to stand up but the spinning of his head suggested that that seriously was the worst idea he’d had all day. 

“Don’t make this any harder than it already is, Barton,” Thornton tried to dismiss him coldly. “Orders are orders, you know that just as much as we do.” - “He saved my life, David! He saved my goddamn life and he patched me up and what, now you’re just gonna throw him in some dark hole and toss away the key?!” He didn’t get why Bruce was following them this calmly, why wasn’t he angry, Clint was _furious_ and it wasn’t even his head they’d just put in the noose.  
Maya was at his side right then and there, trying to get him back into bed. He realized he wasn’t wearing anything but a T-shirt and some boxers, but she’d seen him in less and he didn’t care right now. “Clint, nobody’s going to put him in a cage, don’t get..:” - “Yeah?! So where are you two geniuses taking him, huh? Not the Helicarrier because he freaking _wrecked_ that thing last time!” He realized the answer to that question only seconds after posing it and his face turned a milky grey. “No.” _The Cube_.

“It’s protocol, Barton, nothing much we can do about and he’ll be out in a few days, they’re just going to keep…” - “Don’t be a goddamn JACK-ass, Thornton, really doesn’t suit you.” Clint was breathing heavily by now, never mind the pain of his cracked thorax, he’d once climbed a goddamn skyscraper with a broken leg, this was _nothing_ and he’d be damned if he just let them take Bruce like that and stick him full with needles and run tests and lock him up with all the other radiation-mishaps like some monster. “You want to take someone in, take me,” he offered and he knew it was stupid because really, what kind of threat was he posing right now, not even fully dressed and unable to sit up straight without flinching. 

“You’re embarrassing yourself, Clint,” David shot back and his eyes, too, were turning dark with anger while he got a strong grip around Banner’s upper arm.

Bruce looked at Clint with some kind of wonder in his eyes and the he just _smiled_ like he always did and he said: “I am fine, Clint.” Like he would believe that! Like he would fucking believe one ounce of that shit! Fine his ass! “Stay in your bed. Stay warm. Don't move too much. If I come back to see you have forced all the stitches open I will not be amused, understood?”  
And Clint just didn’t know what to say, he was still so tired and he wasn’t as ready-minded as he should have been and there was no force on the goddamn planet that could make the Thorntons disobey a direct order, not now and not ever. His sight was getting cloudy again, maybe because of some painkillers or maybe it was the pain itself this time, he wasn’t exactly sure, maybe he should try begging, but begging, he had learned, never really helped. And he felt all nauseated and he knew he was gonna be sick, every second now he was going to throw up and for some reason, there was a bucket right next to his bed, he hadn’t even realized it was standing there, as if someone had been taking necessary precautions.

“Let’s roll.”, said Bruce and stood up to be forced through the door and out of Clint’s view. 

Clint wanted to stand up, hurry after them, but all he managed was one pitiful step and then he was down on his knees, hurling into the damn bucket, why on earth was he feeling sick right now, he hadn’t eaten all day…  
And Maya stroke his back until he was finished and pushed him back into his bed and he tried to fight her off but he was weaker than a child and she put the blankets over him and looked at the gun on the floor with lifted eyebrows and collected it while her cousin dragged Banner away to some dark hole and locked him up and Barton just lay there and felt as if he’d betrayed his new friend, abandoning him for good. Maya brought him some water and a cloth to clean himself with, but he couldn’t even look at her. She tried to say something comforting, but he shot her a death glance because seriously, those back-stabbing Thornton-bastards had just taken another innocent man away to be incarcerated, when had they become SHIELD’s jailors anyway, and nothing she could say, no apology she could tell would make up for that. 

While he was drifting off to sleep again, he hated himself for the weakness and the pain and for being stupid, stupid, to trust that SHIELD would make the right decision now that there was no more Coulson to handle things and to take care of the paperwork, ironing out all the small mistakes, and instead there were just Thorntons, Thorntons everywhere, blindly following protocol and regulations and orders and forgetting the humans they actually worked with.

In the last minute before drifting off entirely, his eyes caught the little package at the far end of his bed, a neat little present, red and yellow and pretty and he remembered Bruce’s sad little smile and his hesitation and the ‘maybe I won’t send it at all’. And for a faint, fragile little second he even wondered who it was for and what was in it and why it was such a big deal to Bruce and how came nobody else seemed to care at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, we've officially ended the preface to our story. Yes, we know. Eleven chaps in... but we said slow built, right? So coming up next, the storyline will start to unravel and things will get continuously darker and more twisted (at least one of you might look forward to that ;) ). Not right away, though, because we felt the need to throw Brucey another party. He loves them so much.
> 
> All Hail the Thornton Squad!


	13. 12. He Won't Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's in prison because that is where all the fun stuff happens. It's all about parties. But sadly, no free hats this time. Not yet, anyhow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:**  
>  Incarceration isn't nice. Asylums aren't either, but the people living there are the worst. Don't blame us if you get nightmares - prison changes people. Especially readers :P.

  
**12\. He Won't Go**

_I can't bear this time_   
_It drags on as I lose my mind_   
_Reminded by things I find_

_Wake me up, wake me up when all is done_   
_I won't rise until this battle's won_   
_My dignity's become undone_

_But I won't go_   
_I can't do it on my own_

_When we spoke yesterday_   
_You said to hold my breath, to sit and wait_   
_I'll be home so soon, I won't be late_

**I**

The Cube, Location: Classified | September 21, 2013

Bruce had started to actually like The Cube. He had his own cell there and he didn’t put up a fight when he was pushed inside, when they fastened the cuffs around his wrists and pulled him up.  
He was hanging there, hanging from the ceiling and sometimes he would start to swing a little bit, just to amuse himself. There was nothing else to do, really. The room was clinically white and freezing cold. Bruce had goosebumps all over and he knew that was because they wanted to keep his blood pressure as low as possible. He sometimes wondered if he would be able to die in there, if they dropped the temperature for just another 2 or 3 degrees.  
This was the fourth time he was here. The first time it had been just to see if it would do. The second time Fury had wanted him to offer up some of his blood and when Bruce had actually _hit_ an agent while declining he had come here afterwards. The third time he had been here to show Ross that The Cube could hold him. Fury had told him so beforehand and Bruce had given it his best shot to look as miserable as he could muster. He wasn't sure if he was as good at looking miserable, as he was at looking fine and alright, but at least he had tried.

But now he was here as a real punishment. He was here because he had hulked out in the middle of New York and because Fury had to show everyone that he could restrain him, that he could discipline him. He wasn't very good or thorough with it. There was no actual torture, there was no standing in the corner, there was no whipping, no taking-his-stuff, no walking-around-naked. He just hang here and yeah… it was cold, real cold and there was numb pain in his arms after a time, but he couldn't make himself care that much.

Mainly it was boring. And it was a sort of pointless. The cold made him shiver and it was hard to think but it couldn’t cool the anger. He knew very, very well that he could get out of The Cube in a matter of seconds. He chose not to. He accepted his restraining, he _submitted_. It was a nice thing to do, once in a while: Submitting to an authority figure, to someone, who knew better, to someone who called him on wrong and right. Fury fitted that job description. He never told him he was good. He just called him on it when there was too much monster. And Bruce wanted to submit to him on a level that made it possible for him to believe, that yes: This was punishment and this was just, but he just couldn’t. He was tired. He had looked Fury in the eyes and he had _laughed_ at him, when the man had said that he was to be put in the cell for two weeks. He hadn’t been able to help it. He had snickered and giggled and he had been so deeply, _deeply_ amused.  
“Sure Nick.” He had smiled at him, Thornton in his back, pulling his arms a little bit more, so that there had been pain. “Two weeks in my cell. Why not. Do I get cable this time?” He had snickered some more.  
“What is so funny, Doctor?” Fury had come further, had looked him right in the face, had searched his eyes for something. Perhaps a bit of madness.

“Don’t you know, Nick?” Bruce had let his laughter die and then he had smiled. “I’ll be good, Nick, no worries. Two weeks in The Cube. I accept my punishment gracefully.”  
That had been a week ago. Bruce just hang there with nothing to do but thinking. He was good at thinking but even he did tire of it after a while. He swang back and forth, the tips of his toes scratching over the floor. God, he was numb. His breath wasn't a white cloud in front of his mouth any more. He couldn’t sleep well like this. Sometimes he was too tired and then he hang there and his head lolled from one side to the other and when he woke up he felt worse than before and his arms were burning.  
Once every three days Thornton came in, opened his clothes (he didn't even have socks, how cruel was that?) and worked his body over with a wet sponge. He was left wet and even colder than before, shuddering.  
Today was a sponge-day. Bruce hummed, when Thornton opened the door and came closer. “Hey, David…”  
“It’s ‘Agent Thornton’,” he grumbled and went to work.  
“Of course it is.” Bruce sighed. He actually missed Thornton a little bit. The David Thornton he had gotten to know over the course of that one year back in Russia. He had heard the guy laugh back then. Bruce had still been new with this whole running-away thing. He had thought Russia a _brilliant_ idea. Oh, how naive he had been... He had thought Thornton to be just some American guy, working there, enjoying a game of chess now and then. He had sucked at chess. Well, maybe it had been the fact that he had been playing against Bruce. He had considered the man a friend. He hadn’t told him anything, of course, but there had been no need to. David had known. David had been a SHIELD-Agent even way back then and his job had been to keep an eye on Dr Banner and Mr Hulk.  
“Hey David... I mean, Agent Thornton, sorry.”  
“Yes?”  
“It's my birthday.”

There was silence for a moment. Bruce looked down and saw Thornton deep in thought. Or deep in denial, it was hard to tell. He had been so quick to laugh back then. He had been young and very earnest of course, but he had laughed a lot and Bruce had thought that they had actually… well… hit it off, so to speak. It had been breath-taking back then, because Bruce had never had male friends, not really. He had had Betty and Jen and… well. That had been it, really. Friend-wise. And then there had been David Thornton (well... back then he had been David Rose, but Bruce had been Bruce Roberts, so really, what was in a name?), who liked football and the Ramones, drove a Harley back home, missed the family barbeques and who was so freaking American alpha male that it had been a little bit unsettling. But they had gotten along. Bruce had taught him chess and they went to karaoke together and there was this one time when he had made a barbeque for Thornton and had – of course – burnt everything.

It had all changed, naturally. Perhaps it had never been there, not really. But whatever had been there had been smashed like Thornton’s foot.  
“It's my birthday, David,” he repeated, when he got no answer.  
“Yes.” The man put the sponge down and started to close Bruce's clothes again. “Yes, I know. You won’t get a hug from me.”  
“How about socks?” Bruce tried a smile and wiggled his toes. “Remember? All the snow in January? We talked about socks for three full hours. I’d really love a pair of red and green woolly ones. I’d even take the thin ones with the crazy ducks on them. Just some pair of socks, David. Or something _normal_ to eat. I can’t stand that paper-porridge and I don’t think there are any vitamins what-so-ever in it. Some piece of strawberry-cake. For my birthday.”

He wavered for just one moment. Bruce could see it. And then he could see how he put himself together again, how he looked at the handcuffs, the chains, how he _remembered_. “It’s against protocol, Banner.”  
Bruce sighed. “Of course, Agent. How outrageously bumptious of me.”  
When Thornton turned around, Bruce started humming, singing. “ _I wonder how / I wonder why / yesterday you told me ‘bout the blue, blue sky..._ ”  
Thornton ignored him and went out. Bruce hang there, shivering. _37 years old._ , he thought. _Congratulations, Banner. Well, thank you Agent. Who would have thought it would be like this?_  
“ _I’m turning my head / up and down / turning, turning, turning around_ ” He swung in his chains, tried to ignore the numbness, the cold. He pulled himself upwards a little bit, using the chains as some kind of swing and sang louder, sang just so he could hear his own voice. He was so _bored_. “ _I’m sitting here in the boring room / It’s just another rainy Sunday afternoon / I’m wasting my time / I got nothing to do / I’m hanging around / I’m waiting for you / But nothing ever happens and I wonder..._ ” He stopped swinging and just hang there again and he thought of the present for Betty he had not send now. But it had been there, with the address. It had been beside Clint’s bed. Perhaps Natasha had sent it to her. He hoped so. Betty’s Birthday was two days prior to his own. He thought that... well... maybe he had made her smile. Maybe it was good that he was here, inside, not able to ask JARVIS to find her on some security cam. He wouldn’t want to degenerate to some kind of creepy stalker. “ _I’d like to change my point of view / I feel so lonely / I’m waiting for you..._ ” Of course, THAT was the moment when he heard something.  
Bruce hummed and looked up, all the way up, wary and uncertain. If there was someone trying to _steal_ him, he would have to show Fury just how effective these restraints were. He was pretty sure that it would break Thornton’s heart.

He started to relax when he saw the figure crawling out of the air vent, letting itself down with a cord.  
Clint. All in black, with a big backpack. A plush bunny was on top of it. Bruce recognized Mr Cuddles and chuckled when he saw him. Nevertheless... He let his gaze wander over Clint’s face, the black rings under his eyes, the yellowish discolorations where the bruises had been, the strain in his whole body.

“Shouldn't you be in bed?” Bruce asked, hanging there nonchalantly, shivering and wet and cold and hungry and tired. “You look worse than I do. I’m pretty sure your doctor would tell you to lie down, take it easy and to not break into high security facilities.” He cocked his head. “Actually… I think I _am_ your doctor. And it seems I have to make this clear: No Mission-Impossible-Stunts with broken ribs.”

“Oh, crap…” Clint took in the room, clenching his teeth - and this time, it was clearly not because of the pain. “Oh, I’m gonna kill them.” He rushed over to Bruce, and suddenly there was a pair of thin metal sticks in his hands and he started opening Bruce’s restraints, standing as closely to the other man as possible. “Lean on me, don’t want you to slump down and dislocate something,” he murmured. He didn’t even show if he had heard Bruce’s joke. There were some creases on his forehead and a dark, dangerous glint in his eyes, similar to the one Natasha had shown when she watched Clint’s bruised, shot, unconscious, feverish body. This unspoken promise of ‘making them pay’ for whatever it is that had angered the agents. They both had that look. Funny. Did they know how very little threatening it could look? How fragile and hurt? Obviously, no.

“Yes, Robert,” he mumbled under his breath and smiled. It was a good call, though. His legs wouldn’t carry him and he slumped gracelessly against Clint’s chest. He felt like he weighed way too little, like he was just some brittle leave. “By the way: No killing either. Doctor’s orders, understood Agent? Oh shit, you’re _warm_!” He really was. He was a source of heat, of wonderful heat and Bruce curled around him, trying to take that in. It would be hell as soon as Clint left, he knew that. It would take him two or three days to be his numb self again, to not really feel the cold, to just be sleepy and kindly drugged the whole time.  
Clint didn’t waste much time. He opened those shackles as if his life depended on it - and who knew, in a former mission, somehow, it probably actually had. Catching Bruce’s body, he carefully got him down to the floor, not even flinching when the weight hit him right above one of his gun-shot wounds. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured and then opened his backpack to pull out a blanket, wrapping it around his teammate. “Here, let’s get you warmed up a little bit…” He started rubbing Bruce’s limbs, obviously ignoring any doctor’s orders he was getting right now. “Seriously, though, buddy?” He grinned while he was slowly bringing back some sort of blood-flow in Banner’s body. “They put you in here for a week and you’re already starting a one-man-boy-band? You got no self-assurance at all, sweetcheeks?”

“Never had any.” Bruce grinned and let himself be rubbed. He sighed, when there was some warmth getting into his limbs, when there were the thousands of needles in his skin, making everything prickle and hurt. “I have one week left. At the end I’ll surprise you with a bunch of self-written love-songs, honeysuckle.” He sighed again and then put his hands on Clint’s and forced himself to look the archer in the eye and to look… stern. A little bit at least. He really shouldn’t be climbing around with these kinds of wounds. “Not that I don’t appreciate the visit, but you belong in a bed, under warm covers and certainly not in this freezer.”

Clint seemed to be embarrassed by the concern. “Yeah, and you should get one right beside me. Seems we’re both not exactly living healthy, are we?” He winked. “Don’t worry. I already got the flu. Don’t think it’ll get any worse than that.” Bruce slapped the back of Clint’s head. “Not funny, Clint.” Clint finished rubbing Bruce’s arms, wrapped the blanket tighter around him on his upper body and then went on to rub his icy feet. “This is just madness, you could lose your toes in here. I’m gonna kill them.” 

“I am already a hundred years old. It’s just good for my skin if I’m kept cool.”  
“Yeah, well, luckily for you, I know enough about living in the wild to screw all over your plans of self-conservation.” Clint frowned, then pulled the backpack to him and started unpacking it. Socks, a bonnet, even gloves, all made of thick, red and green wool.  
“In that case, I really will have to form a boy-band and become famous enough for Madame Tuss-a-a….” Alright. Now he was getting just warm enough that the shivering started again. He looked down on the socks and gloves and a grin started spreading over his face. “David w-w-wwi-wi-will not kno-o-ow-w wha-at h-h-hit ‘im…”  
“ _Screw_ Thornton.” The way Clint said it, it sounded more like ‘rip Thornton to a million bloody little pieces’. “Screw Fury. Screw the whole bunch of ‘em. They can’t just _do_ something like that. It wasn’t your damn fault and they can’t just…” He breathed through deeply to calm himself down and keep his voice to a low level, and then grimaced, probably because of his ribs.

“Easy there.” Bruce rubbed his back and tried to force himself to talk normally. The wool around his feet and hands gave him a warm feeling, somewhere inside and he started to think, that this really wasn’t the worst birthday he had ever had. “No. They ca---cant’t. But I let ‘em.” He continued with the rubbing. “It’s all fine. It’s just two weeks.”  
“Yeah, well, you’re virtually insane, Banner,” Clint growled. “I swear to you, I’m THIS close to just telling Tony on all of you. He’d have you out of here even if he’d have to blow the cube up to get you out or send an army of freaking lawyers or shoot you in the head again so you do the damn job yourself.”  
“Lawyers….” Bruce giggled. Uh, that sounded… well that sounded funny. It really should not sound funny. Must have been the freezes. He WAS damn cold. Now more than ever and it just... lawyers would get David to his knees. He would beg for forgiveness if they sent LAWYERS after them. The man would have faced down The Hulk if need be, but lawyers… people who told him that he had made a fault with the _protocols_... “SHIELD can’t afford the entire legal department of SI going up against them because they screw over basic human rights.” Clint explained with a grin. “But we don’t need ‘em. I’ll just put this,” he pulled out some climbing gear, “on you and I’ll drag you out the same way I came in. Practically like taking a walk. Granted the passages wouldn’t fit Steve or Thor, but luckily, you’re in your XS-version right now.”

“Gee, thanks darling, I thought no one had noticed my diet was working.” Bruce let his head hang and sighed. He did that a lot. But Clint was so damn young and… full of energy even though he was ill and he needed someone to look after him and he still thought that there was something like right and wrong. 

“I’ll get you out of here. Don’t worry. I put you in, I’ll get you out. And then I’ll try to make up that damn last week to you. Sorry I couldn’t make it sooner. Like I said, got the flu and some… holes… in my chest. I would have come two days ago but Tasha was threatening to restrain me and even if I do love some nice bondage… Woman can be persuasive.”  
“Yeah, these holes are what’s bothering me. Tell me: Did Tasha believe I would come with you?”

Clint shook his head, but he looked determined as hell. “Don’t you dare tell me you deserve this crap… don’t you dare tell me ANYONE deserves this shithole. Because they freaking don’t. Maybe I’ll lock ‘em in here, just for a few days, make ‘em think real hard about that.”  
Bruce smiled. He just couldn’t help it and then he ruffled Clint’s hair. “Aren’t you just adorable? No, that wasn’t my plan. Although I _do_ have my dark moments, I do tend to wish for… well. Warmer prisons. Maybe a chessboard in it to finally teach Thornton that he can’t _win_ with the same opening every time. BUT that doesn’t change the fact that I do have to be here.” - “Bruce…” Clint, pale-faced and earnest as hell and so worried-eyed that it seemed to physically cause him pain, tried to object, but Bruce cut him short. “There’s no ‘Bruce’ in there. Think about it, Clint. Think about it for just one moment. I _need_ to be in here because Fury _has_ to look like he is able to control me. Not even for his own sanity and I think I cracked his pride when I laughed at him, but well. The moment he _doesn’t_ have the control any more I can tell you what happens: The World Security Council will give Ross or someone like him free reign to _put me down._ Or - worse - to make me manageable. Because without restraint I am a threat and I frighten them. With Fury as the big lion tamer it is not that scary.” Clint gritted his teeth. “Yeah, well, they might not even need _you_ for all that crap.” Bruce let his eyebrows climb up. “What are you suggesting? Pretending that I am here or in some prison while I destroy Tony at _Taboo_ in the lab?”

Clint smiled at him, a smile so forced it looked like he was having toothache just by trying. “Yeah, that’s _exactly_ what I was going for. I’m not getting you to come with me, am I?”  
“Nope.” Bruce grinned. It was not good that Barton was so distressed about that, but well. He had no way of showing him that this was really, really okay. This was… something. He could control this and the fact that he was here on his own free will made it okay for him. Strangely enough, though, Clint didn’t seem to be disappointed or surprised. “Yeah. Didn’t even need Tasha to tell me you’d say that.” He pulled the stuffed rabbit out of the backpack and pushed it into Banner’s arms. “That’s why I brought you a friend.” He also handed Banner a gigantic, red pullover with a stitched reindeer on the front. “And supplies:”  
“If you happen to have tea with you, this might become the fourth best birthday of all times.” He grinned, put the pullover over his head and his head on the rabbit. 

“Don’t rush it, Banner. Still got something to do first.” Clint clapped him on the upper arm and stood up. “There’s some food in there. Meat pie and some cookies and army chocolate. I’m freaking Santa Claus. Get comfy, I’ll be right back.” He walked over to the door, opening it with his picklocks and sneaking out. Bruce nibbled one of the cookies. He wanted to devour the food. He was so hungry, he was starved but it wouldn’t do him any good and he knew it. So he nibbled a cookie and hummed ‘Happy Birthday’ and was pretty content for the moment.  
It took Clint quite a while to come back, but he looked overall pretty pleased with himself when he finally did. He didn’t tell Bruce what he’d been up to, though, just sat down opposite of him, cross-legged on the floor as if they were having a freaking campfire, and pulled out some more stuff from his never-ending backpack. Maybe they taught you how to pack those things so tightly you outdid Mary Poppins.  
“Are you teaching kids in London, Barton? Singing Chim-chimeney?”

Clint laughed silently and poured some water from one of the two five-litre-canisters he had produced from the far depths of the backpack into a miniature water boiler, starting to crank up the even smaller mini-generator to heat it up. “Takes a bit of physical work until it’s boiling, but that’ll help get you warm,” he explained to Bruce as if he was talking about prison rules that you absolutely had to follow. “I’m taking those chains out with me. SHIELD protocol suggests that only those prisoners who are locked into cells with chains have to be restrained at all times. Loophole.” He raised his eyebrows daringly. “Same goes for everything else, really. They have to take everything overly warm or comfy when you go in. Nobody says they have to take it once you’re in and it magically appears.” He nodded towards the back-pack. “There’s a few little bags with powder-based hot chocolate and some bags of your tea in there. And that book from your nightstand. Proust or whatever. And the one with the mathematics that was lying on your couch. Looks boorish as hell but I figured you’d prefer if I brought you that instead of one of Stark’s porn magazines.” 

“‘A Beautiful Mind’ has been made into a movie. Don’t mock the book. It has SPIES in it. You’d like it.”  
“Yeah, right. Matt Damon and Robin Williams. Nice flick. I totally got the guy’s attitude. Until he cracked and befriended his shrink. But well, up to that point he gave me some good ideas.” - “That’s ‘Good Will Hunting’. ‘A Beautiful Mind’ is the mathematician who’s asked to crack some codes by the FBI. He later finds out that he is actually insane. He imagined his best friend and the spies and they make him take pills and he can’t think anymore. He learns to live with the hallucinations.”  
“Right.” Clint grinned. “I can see how you’d be able to relate. Or whatever.” His eyes were sparkling with mockery. “I’m not into spies in fiction, myself. Too many flaws. Sort of takes the fun out of it when you start over-analysing it. Must be like you watching ‘The Big Bang Theory’, right?”

Bruce looked at him a little bit sheepishly. “That’s... something more recent isn’t it? A movie?”

“A sitcom. Pretty famous one at that. A bunch of crazy intelligent physicists and their neighbour who’s got average intelligence but well… she looks kinda dumb next to them except for the fact that they’re all rather stupid when it comes to real life, you know. Nerds of the highest order or whatever, pretty funny, made me understand a bunch of Stark’s jokes better. Even taught me something about the Doppler-Effect. And some cat from some guy that’s alive and dead at once. Yeah, well.” That… sounded a little bit offensive. The series. He really did not know if he wanted to see that but it was probably for the best if he just didn’t. “Schrödinger,” he said and then he looked around and huffed and nibbled on his cookie a bit more. Clint pointed to the backpack. “No matter what it’s about, that book’s probably better than you torturing the rest of this prison with Fool’s Garden.” He was smiling when he said it. Cheeky little bastard.  
And then he even started grinning. “Yeah, well, see. I didn’t even know there was a cat before and now I can describe it and you get what I’m talking ‘bout. Not bad for a high school-dropout who actually didn’t get any education other than that and… SHIELD, huh?” - “I am also a high school-dropout, Barton or did you forget that? Never tell Tony though. He would make me go again. He would want to make me _popular_.” Clint just grinned and didn’t answer. 

Bruce looked around the cell. “I should get a couch in here and a table and then I can live here. David will drop dead if I say something about loopholes.” Hawkeye rolled his steel-blue eyes at the genius. “Not to sound offensive, it’s probably the cold talkin’, but you sound pretty… well… yeah well not stupid but average intelligent for Number Three.” Clint was still grinning, freakishly content with something. He was fucking grinning and he was looking about as pleased with himself as a fat orange tomcat stuffed with lasagne.

Bruce just stared at him for a moment, then he flinched and cursed and got up on his feet. Clint had been talking with Thornton when he had been outside. He probably had ordered him around, annoyed him, _threatened_ him. Bruce got it that these two weren’t exactly on friendly terms and he could understand that. Mr Rebel and Mr I-worship-the-rules, that just wasn’t going to work, but that didn’t mean that David _deserved_ to be handled this way. Bruce still felt… well. He felt some kind of warm affection for David. They had never really been friends, it had been a rouse, a… _game_ , it had been David doing his job, but for Bruce it had _felt_ real. And back then, in the beginning, that had been something to keep him as sane as he could be.  
His legs were still shaking and he was trembling when he made his way to the door and tipped in the number-code on the pad - no need for him to ask for Clint’s skeleton keys. Hm. He probably should not have shown that he _knew_ the code. He stayed well in the cell, just let the door swoosh open. Thornton stood there at the end of the hallway, looking shaken to the core. 

“David.”, Bruce said and took a step back. “I’d say it is mandatory for an agent to comply if he is invited inside.” He waited and waited and then the man _finally_ came shuffling over and pushed into the cell, looking at Bruce’s clothing and the bunny and just shook his head.  
“There really is a bunny.”, he said, a little bit dumbfounded. “And it is ‘Agent Thornton’, Doctor.”  
“Yes. Yes of course it is.” Bruce put a hand over his eyes. “Although it _is_ still Bruce for you, but I won’t force your tongue. Agent Thornton - go and sit beside Agent Barton. Clint - _apologize_.”  
Clint’s face darkened as soon as he saw Thornton. “Oh, no. No way. No FUCKING… You can forget ‘bout that right now ‘cause I’m _not_ apologizing for forcing this self-righteous prick to stop torturing you. I gave him the perfect excuse, in case someone asks questions he can blame it all on me and tell them I coerced him into allowing you to keep the stuff. That simple.” Thornton was looking at Clint just as angrily. They hated each other. Up to today, it had just been a steady dislike, maybe some negative moments in the past. Now, it was open war. They were ready to jump at each other’s throats.

Bruce really didn’t care what had happened between the two of them. They were so _different_ it was just plain simple logic that they would hate each other but that didn’t make it okay. Bruce huffed and put his hands against his thighs. “I won’t have any of this kindergarten in here, understood? It’s my birthday, I want some peace, please, I am an old man now, big four is waiting for me and everything.”  
Clint was laughing. “His core temperature is still about freezing point but hell, the prisoner’s giving orders now. What would you say, Thornton… that PROTOCOL?”  
Bruce slapped Clint over the head. He didn’t even flinch. “Stop it. David - some protocol saying I need to be freed of decent food and clothes? I’ve been told there are loopholes. Look at me: I got socks. Remember socks?”

“Told you,” Clint murmured angrily, “it says you can’t bring stuff in here and it says he can’t give it to you. Nothing says you can’t keep it if it appears… MAGICALLY.” Thornton hated this, but he nodded coldly. “That is correct.”  
“Or Bartonly. Yes. So. David. I am sorry about your foot but will you please let me keep my socks? You know I am a fan of socks. And bunnies by the way.”  
“It’s not about my foot and - Banner, this is INSANE! Do you even realise how… this situation is…”  
“He will let you keep every last thing,” Barton growled. “Because he knows damn well what’ll happen if he doesn’t and he can’t risk that, can you, _Jacky_? Because that would just be _worse_ paperwork and a far worse breach of protocol.” His eyes were like a pair of lightning-bolts, a threat so open it was almost shamefully brutal. “That would get you FIRED, Barton,” Thornton snapped but Clint just grinned. “Yeah, well. I’ve always dreamt about opening a diner.” - “You seriously think they’d just let you _walk_ with all the SECRETS…” - “Nah. I’m not stupid. But I’d be better in prison than Brucey here. I’d be better at fighting men off under the shower…” - “Hey, I can protect my virginity, alright?” - “...and at living with crap food and withstanding cold and hell I’d be a _lot_ better at breaking out.” 

Suddenly, both agents were standing up, movements flowing and purposeful, ready to jump each other. “Don’t you have any sense of loyalty _whatsoever_ , Barton?” Thornton hissed. And it seemed that by that, he’d overstepped some sort of boundary between them. Anger flashed over Clint’s face, red and hot and deadly. “Don’t you dare question _me_ about loyalty, David. You have NO right. You lost that right and you know it, back in…” They both froze, but obviously Clint didn’t even need to say it.  
“That was your own damn fault, Barton, you disobeyed my direct…” - “Yeah, well, I would do it again because you give crappy orders. And I was right, wasn’t I? I got you the fucking intel and you _left me there to rot_. You tossed me away like some discarded tool, an _agent_ of fucking SHIELD, so don’t you _dare_ lecture me about what it means to be ‘loyal’. At least I don’t lock up innocents just because Fury pulls my collar.”

Bruce looked at Thornton. He felt a little bit… well. Confused. He had always thought that David resented him for this incident in Russia where he had crashed the agent’s foot. Bruce knew that he now had some SHIELD-High-Tech-Toes. They probably had STARK written all over them. He cocked his head and let the two of them quarrel for the moment, biting into the meat-pie. Seriously, though… no cake. And no one had congratulated him till this moment. He was a bit put off.  
But when the whole 'Fight-Club-thing' seemed to start, Bruce sighed, stood up and went to stand between them. He licked the rest of the meat pie of his fingers and then looked from one to the other.  
He tried to smile and he knew he was too old to be cute and to get them to stop it like this so he went for creepy. “Guys… I had a troubled childhood.” - “Yeah? Well, get in line,” Clint murmured but he shut up when he saw the look on Bruce’s face. “I don’t take well to parents arguing. So don’t, yes? Clint: You’re sitting down now and stopping to behave like a child or I will stay two weeks longer and let them put on the bass music. Sitwell wanted to find out how I would react to sleep-withdrawal. David – why are you angry with me if it isn’t about your foot? I could understand you not wanting to play chess anymore after I _crushed your foot_ but-”  
“You blew up the KREMLIN.”  
“I smashed it,” Bruce corrected and looked at the red face Thornton was displaying. His own eyes went a little wider. “So… just to get this straight… this whole _sulking_ has been because of a _building_?”

That was… a bit much. He was disappointed to say the least. And his head rang with all the screaming. “Just to make something clear: Agent Barton is very loyal and he has shown that many times. I take it you two were teamed up and it went bad. Huh. Who would have guessed that… It was a bad call to get you two together as handler and agent. You do both do good - or excellent - jobs when you work with different people. I would appreciate it if you two just calmed down. Clint - do you believe me if I tell you that David takes no pleasure in tormenting me and will therefore let me keep my bunny, even if you _don’t_ threaten him, which creates a very hostile work environment. There must be _paperwork_ for that kind of thing.” Clint snorted. “That’s the best part. Come Monday he’s my new handler. So if there’s internal complaints about me, guess who gets to do the paperwork.”- “And guess who gets to have your back in the field, Barton. Might want to consider that for a moment before you piss me off.” - “Yeah, well, I don’t see myself going back in the field any time soon, as you well know. No big risk there.” They were having another staring contest. Neither of them was losing. 

Bruce didn't like this whole thing one bit. Thornton as Clint’s new handler. That SCREAMED bloody violence. He looked uneasy between the two of them. No. That wouldn't do for the moment. He really wasn't good at pair therapy.  
He put his arms up and looked at Thornton. Thornton looked back. There was a vein on his forehead, pulsing.  
Bruce tried a smile. “I am sorry for destroying the Kremlin. And being a nuisance altogether. It wasn't my plan to destroy it. Really. I rather liked it, actually. Give us a hug, big guy? For my birthday?”  
Thornton made growling noise and then turned around. “When I come back, HE will be gone.”  
“And safe and sound in his warm bed, I promise.” Bruce sighed again when the door closed behind Thornton. He pulled at his hair and sat down on the floor, putting his head on Mr Cuddles. “He is a nice enough guy, you know? If you let him be.” - “He’s one of SHIELD’s finest,” Clint replied and it didn’t even sound overly ironic. “Problem is, I never was. I’m not good with rules or with authority figures. I take my own path and that’s something people like him will never be able to work with. He’s a damn fine agent. But he lacks… humanity.” Clint frowned, as if there was something else, but he didn’t say it.  
“He needs rules. He _needs_ them, Clint. It's in his blood. He has a system for his sock-drawer. He has a system for _barbeque_.” Bruce put a hand on his forehead and tried to think. “There are always different ways to do stuff. To… get things done. Take Tony and me. We are basically the same. Children. Put us in a lab and we will try things out just because we _can_. We are… artists, so to speak. Chaos.” Bruce knew that he didn't look the part. Bruce knew he looked calm and collected and mildly curious when he was in a lab but the truth was: He did the same thing Tony did. He was just being sneakier about it. “But there are people who need a goal and a plan and who will stick to that. They get the job done, too, but differently. Put Jane Foster and me or Tony in a lab, I dare you. She will run screaming within the minute, I will turn green and Tony will just blow everything away with ACDC. It would be a bad call to put us together. Wouldn't be the fault of any of us.” Clint listened, calmly. He actually seemed to think about what Bruce was saying. “We just have our… differences. Is all. We managed working together in the past, for two ops. Problem is, he’s a control freak and with many agents that works just great, telling them exactly what to do every single step of the way. But he’s not… adjustable. And I don’t like set rules on how to take my opponents down or what way to best sneak in a guarded fortress. I’m a specialist. I can do this stuff on my own. I need someone to talk me through it, to be there if I run in a tight spot, someone quick. First op was a lot of shouting until I just put my damn comlink out. Second one didn’t go so well, but yeah. I’ll be fine. I always am. And he was right. Getting caught and everything that followed the next 48 hours, that was my own damn fault for not listening. Leaving me for dead, that was him being a self-righteous asshole and waving a giant sign with ‘I TOLD YOU SO’.” There was a finality about Clint’s words as if he wanted to say ‘and that’s all I’ll tell you about this’ or ‘I won’t be discussing it any further’.

He didn't like the picture of Clint. Somewhere. Alone. Hurt. _Left for dead._ For a moment he wanted to run outside and slam David in a wall, just for that. He WAS a self-righteous dick sometimes, of course he was but… you didn't leave people behind. Especially not people Bruce liked.  
“I am glad you are okay. Or alive. And mostly sane.” He said it with a smile and tried to look the part, like he wouldn’t want to hug Clint and never let him go, just so he could protect him.  
Protect him. Lord, he was becoming a mother hen, he had always known it would end like this.

“Natasha sent that package by the way. The one you left behind. Hope that was okay.” Bruce scrunched his face. He didn’t know if that was okay. He really didn’t. “I sure hope so,” he murmured and then stood up and started pacing through the cell. He hadn’t used his legs for so long it felt _marvellous_ to just walk and walk and _use_ his body. He started thinking more clearly. Like he had needed his body to move so his brain could follow.  
“Thank you for coming, Clint,” he said finally. He stood in one corner of the cell and looked up to the ceiling. “Anytime,” Barton told him and it sounded as though he actually meant it.  
“And please don’t tell Tony. I really would prefer to just… stay here for another week and get it over with.” Clint smiled. He actually seemed to understand, even if he had made it clear what he was thinking about the arrangement. “Thornton bothers you, you tell him you’ll file a complaint against his bullying of prisoners. That should shut him up.”  
He stood up, hugging Bruce close without a warning, holding him for almost half a minute. His arms were strong and warm and promised protection. Funny thing. Normally hugs that were initiated by other people just felt like they would crush him the next moment, put him down, fight him, beat him up. He could work with that. He had self-control, after all - but it was never actually comforting or _nice_ to have people touch him. Clint seemed to be an exception. Maybe because Bruce couldn’t look at him and not see a little, lost child. “Happy Birthday, Banner. Take care ‘cause if you don’t you’re answering to me. I’ll see you around, sweetcheeks.” 

Bruce was a little bit out of his depth. He didn’t do hugs. Not… normally. Not with people who weren’t as crazy as Tony. But well. Clint was just as crazy. “You should take care. Go to bed, Barton. Doctor’s orders. Next time I will let them _treat_ you if you are such a stubborn patient.”

“Don’t worry. Tasha’s fuzzing all over me like a tiger mummy over her cub. I don’t exactly get a lot of chances to get worse with her around. She can be even more annoying than you that way,” Clint grinned, taking the chains from the ceiling and winding them around his thorax without as much as a sign of pain, and then he jumped at the rope that was still dangling from the air vent and went up, swift and fast as if he were completely sound, vanishing through the little hole at the ceiling without much more than a little clanging sound. Then, his head popped back out. “Last chance to change your mind, Bruce.”

“Nah.” Bruce grinned and waved a hand, as if he was standing at a platform watching the train depart. “I am an old man now, I need my nap. Give Natasha a big kiss from me.”

“I’ll give her a hug. Stop kissing other people, you’re breaking my heart.”  
And with that, the rope was pulled up and the hatch was shut and Barton was just… gone with Mr Cuddles and a bunch of food and clothes being the only trace that he’d ever actually been there. Bruce looked up to the place where once his chains had been. Well. He wouldn’t be able to merrily swing his time away any more. He grinned, made a cup of hot chocolate, leaned against a wall in his new, warm clothes and opened Proust. _Third best birthday ever_ , he decided and he didn’t care that that might be a little bit sad.

 

  
**II**

Graham Memorial, LA | September 29, 2013

Christian remembered his name. He thought that was quite important. Sometimes it was the only thing he could remember. That was, when they gave him too many drugs or not enough and he would lie there on the floor not knowing if he needed to get stuff inside of him or out of him.  
 _Tick-Tock, makes the clock._  
He leaned against the wall, cuddling with himself. The jacket forced him to do that, but that was alright. He liked hugging himself and he liked it when other people did it. He wanted to be hugged and sometimes he thought that that wasn't enough, that people were lying when they did it. People lied and people just didn't know any better. They thought they felt something but it wasn’t real, it was never real. And inside of this building, there was him and there were his memories and he thought he could hear people laughing and telling him that they loved him. Love was a lie. Love was an illusion, a madness.

But sometimes he forgot that. Sometimes there were the memories and he and nothing else and then he started to believe that someone would come and visit or get him out.  
He didn't want out. Out was… different. Changing. Strange. He liked it inside. Inside was home.  
When he felt that way, he knew what would make it better and his friends were nice enough to comply. He didn't even have to ask. When they came, it would start and after a while, when they were finished, there weren’t any memories left. There was just him and the floor and the pain, roaring through him, telling him: _You are here, you are now, you are you. There's nothing else._  
“My name is Christian.” He tried it out, he tried the words and tested them on his tongue, he rolled them around and played with them. It was still quiet in his room and he huffed and leaned back against the wall.  
Christian was friends with everyone. They would get him out soon and put him in the big room with the telly and… there was a name for that room, he knew there was a name, but he couldn’t remember, couldn’t put his finger on it. It was a funny day, really. They had given him the red pills, he remembered it now. Lots of red pills… hm. Too many probably. He started to forget words again.  
“A long long time ago, there was a little girl who everyone liked.” Christian murmured the words, searched for them and put them together. He couldn’t remember how the story went on.  
Hmmm. He had told this story before. He had told it to a girl who didn’t come. Who never came. No one came.  
“My name is Christian.”, he tried again and he knew that there had to be more to it than that. “My name is.... white and cold and…” Nah. That didn't make any SENSE. And sense was all that mattered. All that was there. Sense-sense-sensesysensense. It was a rhythm of its own. A song, a lullaby.  
There was noise outside. Lots of noise. Christian crunched his face. “Couldn't you be a little bit more quiet, please?”, he whined. “I need to concentrate. My name shivers and… no, no that isn't quite alright...”  
The noise came, the noise went and when the screams finally stopped, Christian huffed and closed his eyes.

“Are you sure that this is a good idea?”  
“Yes. It's a brilliant idea. Believe me. I am the genius, circus freak.”  
“Freak.... how harsh, coming from a lunatic.”  
“Oh, I see, we will work just fine, won't we? He, Christian! _Frost_!”

Oh yes, FROST. That was his name, the name that shivered, a name as white and cold as snow.  
He looked up and saw a man looking through the little window in the door. He knew that man. He had known his name once, too. But it just wasn't there anymore. Not like it normally was, together with all the other names and words. He remembered something, that wasn't quite a name, but it was near enough. “BB-5-0-6?”, he asked.  
“Well, thank you for using the number instead of my name, Frost.”  
“You're welcome.” He smiled and stood up.  
Another voice said something, a voice thick with accent. “That guy's crazy!”  
“Well, ain't that a surprise? You DO remember where you are, don't you?”  
“Home,” Christian answered instead of the man and he giggled, 'cause he had known the answer to that question. Words! Maybe the words and the names would come back now!

“Right, Frost. Home. Veeeeery good. Good boy.”  
Christian preened. He was a good boy. He did good. That was… well. It was better than searching for words and names, even though it came from BB-5-0-6. That one was _mean_. He said stuff that Christian didn't like. He couldn't remember at the moment, but he was sure, that that guy was a meany.

“Do you want to leave home, Frost?”

“No! No.... I don't think so.” Outside was the sky and the sky was tall and wide and it scared him, had scared him now for quite some years. This house had taught him how to fear things and the sky was something that was just much too big. It would be able to swallow him whole, he might fall into it or it might crash down on him. He liked it here, inside. He knew his home, he knew this place. New things were scary.

“Well, do you want to be alone?”  
“... no.”  
“That's too bad. Everyone wants to leave!”  
That wasn't good. Christian didn't want to be alone. Alone was never good, alone was when no one visited, when he started to miss people who never came, people he might have had imagined once upon a time, before they had given him all the pills to make it better.  
“What do you think, Frost? If I open the door… can you make them stay? Stay with you?”  
“Yes… yes…” They would stay. If Christian asked, they would stay. He could be so very convincing, he knew. He would make them stay, he wouldn't let them go. Well… he would let BB-5-0-6 go. He didn't like him anyway. But he liked the guards and the guards liked him. And there were the doctors, too. They would all stay and they would have so much FUN while Christian waited for words and names to come back to him.

The door creaked and Christian stood up and went through the door into the light.  
 _Make them stay._ , he thought and giggled. _Uh...it's gonna be a party!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anyone keeping count? 'Cos we're getting a sense that Bruce is getting his way more often than Clint. But then again, Clint would probably be the girl if they were in a relationship... He IS the pretty one. And so sensitive.


	14. 13. If I Had A Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And, yet again, there ought to be a party. But we skipped that one. Clint is a bit sorry for being a drama queen and ruining it and Brucey was a bit sad the cake was a lie, so...
> 
> Oh right, no spoilers. See for yourselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be safe: for more complex **trigger warnings** , please have a look at the end notes! Or don't (because safe, seriously, is BOOOORING!). Probably more fun if you don't.

  
** 13\. If I Had A Heart **

_This will never end 'cause I want more_  
 _More, give me more, give me more_

_If I had a heart I could love you_  
 _If I had a voice I would sing_  
 _After the night when I wake up_  
 _I'll see what tomorrow brings_

 

Stark Tower, NYC | September 30, 2013

**I**  


It was a pretty official happy day. Another Bruce-Banner-Party. Or well. It WOULD have been, had Bruce told anyone that there was something to celebrate. Officially he had been with his family for his birthday. Thornton had given him the file about that. And then there had been… well. Lab-time.  
Bruce shuffled into the living room, a nervous flutter in his chest. Close to everyone was there, Steve and Thor and Natasha and Tony. Bruce was wearing his lab coat, his hair was ruffled and he looked half starved. He pretty much looked like he always did, when he had been occupied with an experiment and he had actually hoped that that would be what had happened. Officially. Tony shot him a glance from the couch and smiled at him. “Well, back to living the life? One of these times I will surprise you down there, building an artificial Hulkina.”  
“It would be a She-Hulk and no, you wouldn’t. You would stumble on me and Clint having sex against the TV.”

“IRGH!” Tony shuddered but it wasn’t as big a shudder as it had been in the beginning. He was getting immune to the Hulkeye. It was a shame, really. Bruce kind of planned to put some underwear in his lab, just so Tony could find it and blush to death.  
Mean? Him? NEVER!

“What are we watching tonight? “  
“Well it is MY turn to choose and -”  
“...I should go back to my lab…”  
“AND because we are saving the Gremlins for Christmas, we will be watching Corpse Bride.”  
Bruce cocked his head and decided, that… yes, there could have been worse movies. So he just went over to the kitchen to prepare the popcorn and nodded to Steve who was setting drinks on the table.

“AND I must say it again-”  
“- Stark. I must tell you that I may not know that much about this century, but Tim Burton is not stealing your dreams and making movies out of them.”  
“How would you know? You are in half my dreams and Tim Burton MADE these super-cheesy Captain America Movies. With that Catwoman in them… Bruce, you remember?”  
“Michelle Pfeiffer, Tony. No one could forget that.”  
“Excellent answer, Brucey-kins. By the way: Can I still call you that or will I be shot by lovebug?”  
“You’re on my list Tony. But just as a bottom, and no toys.”  
“He’s taking away my fun!!!!”  
“... I get the image, I should be ashamed for the both of you… and Tony it doesn’t make sense if…”  
In that moment, Clint entered the room.

For a few seconds, he just stood in the door, grinning all over his worn out face. Not even the dark shadows under his eyes could mask the gladness when he saw Bruce, amidst all of his teammates, bantering away with Tony. “Well, look who they let out of prison,” he finally said, strolling in, eyes only for Bruce. “Tell me you missed me, sweetcheeks.”  
Bruce played along if even just for the faint hope, that Tony would get side-tracked if he flirted with Clint as openly as possible. He opened his arms. “Honeysuckle, if you hadn’t taken it on yourself to enforce your right to marital visits, I would have died of longing.”

Steve and Thor both froze on the spot, just like that one morning in the kitchen. Natasha’s eyes glistened with humour, she was the only one to interrupt the merry scene with an overly bored “Gosh, girls, get a ROOM already!” Clint came over, his hips swinging only so slightly, giving Bruce another big kiss on the mouth before he took him in a hearty embrace. “Good to have you back, Cuddles.”  
“Prison… is that some kind of Midgardian saying I am not familiar with?”  
“Nah, Thor, buddy, that’s 'prison or marriage'.” Tony stared up at them, not one ounce of humour in his eyes. “What was that about? I thought you were in your lab, you had that sock on the door.”  
Bruce sighed and pulled at his hair, scratching his neck. His lips were still unnaturally warm from the kiss and he thought that he really shouldn’t get too used to kissing people. It might become a bad habit. “Yeah, I asked one of the agents to do that, just so…”  
“Bruce… what is this prison-talk about?”  
“I had… out-time? Sitting on the stairs?”  
“Supernanny.” Thor beamed, because he knew that one and helped himself to some popcorn. “Harsh woman, but just.”  
“Yeah, Loki would have _loved_ her, I am sure, but who the hell went all reality-TV on you Bruce? AND WHERE?”  
“Some place called The Cube.” Bruce shrugged and then just let himself fall on the couch. “Tony, I had a Hulk-out in New York. Something had to be done, I understand that. So I had to sit alone for a couple of days and got nasty food and no real hygiene. SHIELD has to show that they CAN do that stuff to me. It’s okay, really. Not that big a deal.”  
Naturally, Tony begged to differ. Loudly.

In the meantime, Clint had walked over to Tasha, taking the beer she gave him and smiling at her fondly before he took his favourite seat: Right at her feet, in front of the couch, sitting cross-legged on a blanket on the ground like some sort of Native American. Tasha stretched out on the couch, dangling one of her arms around his thorax, patting him only so slightly. It seemed to be her way of saying ‘I’m glad I’m home from my mission’, and when he reached up to touch her wrist and then hold her hand in his, intertwining their fingers, it seemed he was saying ‘me too’. There was one of these short, fragile moments that made it seem as though they weren’t realizing there was anyone else in the room with them, before they switched back to group-mode. As soon as Tony started having a hissy fit about SHIELD-prisons, Clint looked up at the talking parties in the room and put in his two cents. “Don’t worry, Stark. I went over and visited him, gave him your best. He would’ve known that you love him, had he died over there.”- “You’re kiddin’ me, right? Brucey-kins, tell me you did NOT get deported to some SHIELD-supermax and Birdie here didn’t even see fit to tell anyone!”

Natasha lifted her brows. “I knew.” She shrugged, all self-esteem and casual had-it-under-control.  
“It’s alright Tony, you’re still up there among my favourites.”  
“AMONG??? And that it isn’t the freaking point! The point is that they can’t just put you in some prison, who do they think you are? A misbehaving child? It is MY job to give you a spanking if you should ever be in need of one and I wo- oh, no. Shut your mouth. No ‘Clint did that already’-jokes, that is way too obvious and on the other hand YOU would be the one doing the spanking.” Clint frowned and looked as though he’d like to intercept something, but Natasha slapped the back of his head, whispering something in his ear that made him blush and shrug.  
“I promise you that I will inform you the next time I get a time-out ordered by SHIELD. So long as YOU promise to just let me stay there and not come running, busting me out with a flying bike or some other StarkTech.”

Thor and Steve had started to watch the discussion with an increasing amount of confusion. “Does anyone care if I put the news on first?” Steve finally asked a little bit weakly. He was obsessed with the news, as if he was still hoping they’d be his connection to this strange new time he had found himself in.  
Natasha just took over the remote control, rolling her eyes and switching the TV set on. She didn’t seem to care for anyone’s opinion at this point, just gave the Cap his wish, fondling Clint’s short hair with her free hand. Hawkeye closed his eyes as if he was enjoying the moment, ignoring everyone else in the room.

“That news-lady dost have just the same lovely coloured hair as my beloved Jane Foster,” Thor informed everyone and beamed at the TV. Steve turned his head. “Where is she tonight, anyways?” Natasha grinned. “Come on, Cap, we all know you’re more interested in why she didn’t at least give her assistant the evening off.” Steve Rogers looked a bit taken aback, but Tony decided it was time to give someone else than Cap the hard time. “Oh, yeah, Jane. I ran into her this morning, Thor, she told me she was doing the only sane thing. Getting the hell out of here.” - “Thou dost be mistaken, my iron-hearted friend.” Thor didn’t even realize there had been a joke, he saw fit to inform everyone of Jane’s and Darcy’s actual plans. “The fair ladies Jane and Darcy are attending a wise counsel of the brightest scientists of Midgard in a mighty city called Boston.” - “You bought that? What’s Brucey-kins doing here if all the best and brightest are there? Hell, what am _I_ doing here?” It went on, back and forth, when one of the reports caught Bruce’s attention.

_“Los Angeles. A situation at the Graham Memorial is keeping the LAPD in suspense. According to officials no clear comments can be made on if or how many patients have escaped. The doctors are still inside and statements, made by phone, have led to the possible interpretation that several prisoners managed to overpower the guards in what seems to have been an attempt to break free, taking several members of the staff prisoner. A police officer has been sent inside to negotiate with the hostage-takers. Our sources informed us that their demands included bunny-ears, large hats and a lot of tea. It’s a bargaining in a mental asylum, treated like a joke, when clearly-”_

At first, no one seemed to notice. Tasha had taken her hand off Clint’s hair, grabbing a handful of popcorn. Tony was discussing pros and cons of homosexual intercourse and SHIELD-holding-facilities again, Thor still tried to explain what Jane Foster was doing this week and the Cap was watching the news as if he meant to devour them. It wasn’t until Black Widow touched her partner again and he just slumped to the ground, that they realized Clint hadn’t spoken in several minutes.

Bruce didn’t notice either. He should have, but… but he had closed his eyes and there had been another person sitting right next to him. _“It’s probably nothing, Bruce.”_ , Robert said and ruffled his hair. Bruce knew that, after that, he just sat there, his legs crossed, all nonchalance. _“You know what kind of people are in there. Someone is having a party. _He_ is probably already being maimed and killed by the birthday-boy.”_  
“That doesn’t help…” Bruce gritted through his teeth.  
 _“Neither does low blood sugar in combination with the RaHus.”_  
This made Bruce look up and into the eyes of someone who looked just like him and couldn’t be seen by anyone. What was that supposed to mean?  
Robert grinned at him and Bruce was once more reminded that this special imaginary friend of his hadn’t been this vivid in a long time. He had sometimes seen him sitting on his bed, back in Brazil or India. He had hummed to him. He never sang. He always said that he could sing only one song and Bruce didn’t want to hear that particular tune.

Bruce followed Robert’s gaze and saw Clint lying there. “Oh, shi-”  
He was up and by his side in no time at all really, putting a hand on his cheek, forcing his eyes open, taking his pulse. “Clint… Clint can you hear me? What did you eat today, Clint?”

“Clint! Clint, what the hell…” Natasha was by his side just as quickly, her breath as steady as ever, no emotion in her perfect face. Just her eyes told of her concern, her eyes and the hand that slapped Clint in the face - to no avail whatsoever. “He had some cereal for breakfast, but he couldn’t keep it in so I told Stark to remind him to eat later. He’s been throwing everything right back up ever since you left for The Cube, he’s trying to hide it, you know how he gets, Bruce. But he won’t let me call a doctor and I basically had to force him to eat at all. He says everything tastes bad and he can’t keep it in most of the time...” She spoke quickly, harshly almost, especially when she turned to Tony, who was just sitting there all frozen up, and gave him her coldest Russian spy-mask. “I left him in your care this morning. Think, Stark, damnit. What has he eaten?!”

Tony did indeed look a bit sheepish. “I… see, there was this thing with Dummy, a FIRE in my LAB, I seriously had to go and when I asked him later he said ‘Sure’ and continued playing Zelda, how was I supposed to know that he has to be breastfed?”

Tasha hissed and for a moment, it looked as though she would jump ahead and strangle Tony or rip his face off with her perfectly shaped fingernails. Then Steve lunged forward, holding her back at her waist, constraining her with all the strength he could muster. “Agent… calm down… This isn’t helping! Natasha!”

“STOP IT!!!” Bruce slammed his hand on the table, all rage and snarl. Natasha stopped dead in her tracks and even Tony looked dumbfounded and a little bit more cautious than normally. Bruce hated playing that card, he despised it on a physical level, but he couldn’t help it right now. He had to look after a patient, after Clint and he would worry about scaring the Avengers after he was done with that.  
“JARVIS, a pizza to Clint’s room. Pineapples and bananas. Also orange juice. Tony, Natasha - stay put! I don’t want to see either of you hurt and if I see that you gave each other even one scratch, I will hunt you both down and put pheromones in your drinks so you will hump each other like bunnies. Have I made myself clear?”

“Don’t forget the soup. He loves Thai soup. Seems to stay in better, too.” Natasha still looked furious and it was only with the greatest caution that Steve let her lose. Her glance at Tony should have killed him on the spot and there was no telling if she wasn’t going to attempt exactly that as soon as Clint was safe. She didn’t respond to Bruce’s threat, however. Obviously, she wouldn’t even mind fucking Stark as long as she got to strangle him while doing so.

“Thai soup, alright. He can’t taste anything, but why not. JARVIS: Thai-soup and chocolate cake. And I suppose he has that netflick-account in his room he never uses?”  
“Of course, Sir.”  
“Very well.” He cradled Clint against his chest and then stood up. He was strong enough to carry a grown man, he had outrun and outfought enough soldiers in the past decade to be in excellent shape even though no one gave him credit for it. He let his gaze wander over the Avengers and he snarled again. Really. He was in prison (somehow) and couldn’t even expect them to look after one another enough that no one died of low blood sugar while he was gone? “I am thoroughly disappointed in all of you. And tomorrow you will all apologize to Clint and then I want your fucking med-stats at the fridge and I will examine ALL of you every three days. Seriously. Next thing I know, Tony dies of palladium poisoning.” 

Thor tried to jump in, take over, but Bruce just walked right past him and the God of Thunder was still too stupefied to insist on helping the ‘Good Doctor’ out. Natasha looked like a kicked cat, but underneath the rush of guilt for leaving Clint alone with Stark throughout the day, there was mainly anger. You could tell she had done the leap of faith today, trusting Tony with something highly important to her. And he’d messed it up. He knew, too. Although Tony had gotten all defensive before, he gave her a side-glance that wasn’t purely fear for his life, but actually guilt-ridden. He knew he had hurt her trust, when she finally, for once, decided to give it to him. However, he wasn’t good at admitting his faults. Steve stayed between them, watchful, ready to part them again if need be. As soon as they thought Bruce couldn’t hear them anymore, the bickering and arguing started, clearly louder than any of them realized.

 

Bruce carried Clint up to his room and put him on his bed. He knew that Hawkeye didn't like needles, so he didn't do what he would have done normally. Instead he waited for the food to arrive and then went into the bathroom, got some cold water and sprinkled it on Clint, till his eyes started moving.

“Morning, sunshine. You have to drink this… up… up… up… nice, veeery good.” He nodded, put the empty phial back in his pocket and then put the food in front of Clint. The medicine would not allow him to throw up. He needed food in his system if he really had… well. Bruce hoped that he did not. He didn't really know how THAT should have gotten into his system. “You have to eat something fast. One slice of pizza. Don't even chew it, just down with it and then you will eat normally. I don't care what it tastes like, understood?”

Clint drew a face like a petulant kid when it gets his least favourite food and is told there won’t be any dessert until it’s all finished. But he understood, and he did as he was told. Every gulp looked like he might spit it back out, but he got it down, somehow, unveiled disgust in his eyes as he wolfed down whatever Bruce put in front of him, his hands shaking all the time. “Man, that’s just… urgh.” After three slices of pizza, two cups of soup and one slice of cake, Clint shook his head. “Seriously. That’s… nasty.” He took a banana that Bruce offered him, smelled at it and then just handed it right back. “Nah, please. Just… don’t ruin bananas for me, too.” He lay down back into his pillows, looking up at Bruce, as if he was just realizing something. “Shit.” One of his hands wiped the sweat from his brow. “Shit. I’m so sorry, man. I didn’t mean to ruin your homecoming for you. You get out of prison and instead of partying you get to sit here an’ stuff me full with good food that tastes like crap to me while you wait for me to throw up... that’s just not fair. Go on. Get out. Have fun. I’ll be fine. I’ve eaten. See? All done.”

And wasn’t that just like Clint? Bruce hummed and smiled and shook his head. Really. “Well, aren’t you adorable?” He ruffled his hair and sat down beside him, taking a slice of pizza, putting banana on it.  
“I’m not adorable. I’m gross and sweaty and icky… I probably smell like crap.” Clint pouted and then looked at the pizza. “Got your sense of taste fried too, Banner?”  
“You do.” No way of denying that and Bruce answered rather cheery. “Banana and Pizza. It’s a thing.” He ate it with relish and licked his fingers afterwards.

“I don’t know what you gave me but usually I wouldn’t even need to be sick to throw up on _that_ ,” Clint grinned. “That’s just… wrong, Bruce. On so many levels.”  
“I gave you something you might hate me for later.” Bruce looked a little bit rueful and sighed. It wasn’t like he had had any other option with Clint and his hate of needles.  
Clint stiffened. “Wait… what? What did you give me?”  
“Aphrodisiac.” He let his eyebrows dance, than just closed his eyes and laid back. “It’s just stronger than the usual stuff. You might feel it tomorrow. Migraine is a possibility, as is feeling lightheaded or - in a rather bad case - well… stoned. There might have been a chemical in that mix that might have been distilled from a plant that might be a very close relative to weed.”

“Wha…” Clint widened his eyes. “What, like… those blue pills Cap probably needs if he wants to have sex?” Bruce slapped Clint’s head. “The aphrodisiac-part was a joke and Cap doesn’t need pills for that. Dr Foster’s assistant can probably tell you a thing or two about that.”  
“Good for the old man.” Clint grinned. “Well, it’s good to know you didn’t pump me full with love-poison, even though the headache-part sounds like it’ll suck just as much as eating and throwing up and eating and throwing up in a vicious circle because Tasha won’t stop pushing me to food. I was really glad Stark gave me a break with that crap today. But yeah, if it gets too bad, I might just ask Darcy for some sex-stories. Maybe it’ll take my mind off things.” He grinned, then offered Bruce the pizza-carton again. “Take another one. At least you’ll be able to appreciate it.” His face, however, got a tad bit worried while Bruce was eating. “When you say stoned… how much… I mean…” He looked really uncomfortable. “Should I like… restrain myself or something? Just in case?”

“Being stoned is not like…” Bruce wanted to say _that_ for a moment, but it didn’t seem fair. Not with the fear in Clint’s eyes. “Lord Voldemort.” Bruces sighed, when he said the name and then looked Clint in the eyes. “Being stoned is not like being under the control of an evil god, Clint. Worst case scenario is that you will be naming all the telephones in the house and dare JARVIS to play online-strip-chess with you. Shall I tackle you if that happens?”  
“Well, Doc, you make it sound like fun. And no, please don’t. Have JARVIS put together a video feed. You can play it at my funeral. Get Tasha to lighten up.”  
“I thought about asking her to marry me to get that part done, but alright, have it your way.” Bruce wolfed down another slice of banana-pizza and then finished the Thai-soup. He was HUNGRY. He usually ignored that after being… well. Free again. He had starved nearly to death quite a few times and he got… wolfish when he had been famishing and then got this much food in front of him. He was going to regret this deeply, come the next morning, but it was banana-pizza and that made everything ok. Well… more or less. Clint watched Banner eat and a little smile crept up on his lips. He looked quite content for someone as sick as he had been these last few days. Or two weeks, if Natasha hadn’t been exaggerating, and she usually never did. “I just realized… I never actually told thank you for patching me up, after… well. I might have been hallucinating but I sort of remember you standing there and telling me you’d keep the other doctors out and that it would be fine and stuff. And I think you gave me something to sleep because I freaked out with the needle and then… well. Nothing after that. So whatever it was… it worked.”

Bruce looked at the banana and ate it even though his stomach was twitching. Robert had said… RaHus. And the low blood pressure and the throwing up, the constant sensation of bad taste and smell… yes, that were all the signs, right there. He didn’t remember giving him that stuff.

 _“There might always be the possibility, that -”_  
 _“YES, but he has to know what he’s getting himself into, that stuff isn’t M &Ms, Robert!”_  
His only answer was a knowing smile that was just there in his head. The guy really got too cocky sometimes.  
He hadn’t known that Robert could… or that he _would_...  
 _”I was merely looking after him. I like the guy. He’s bright, that one. Don’t worry, if Stark ever gets sick, I’ll let him rot wherever he is. But you needed sleep and he needed -”_  
 _“Not_ that _. It could have killed him.”_  
 _“Ah, but it didn’t. He’s overall healthy and strong, that one. You picked yourself a fighter, Bruce. Have a little faith in me.”_

“Bruce? You okay?” Clint’s voice pulled him back to reality. “Not trying to be funny, but you look worse than me. And I’ve been puking for weeks. I mean, I had Tasha _worried_. It was crazy. Stark said that they’d maybe laced those bullets with something, you know, poison. But I wouldn’t let ‘em draw blood and I’m basically fine. I mean I’ve had much worse and I’m getting better every day. You patched me up alright. Saved my life, Tasha said. So… thank you.”

Bruce tried to smile and he knew that it was weary and just so plain damned tired that it probably didn’t count. There actually was no reason why he felt so… but of course there was. His mind took him back to the news downstairs. The Graham Memorial. It was there, tugging at his mind and he actually relished the fact that Robert was there, a soothing, safe presence just around the corner. It was bad, running to your imaginary friends, he knew that.  
“You’re not basically fine, Clint. And there might a time when I will have to take your blood for tests. I won’t let you die because you don’t like it. I know that that is an understatement, don’t get me wrong and I will try to make it easy on you, but… oh come on.” Clint had frozen as soon as Banner mentioned drawing blood for the first time, then he’d flinched back from Bruce, eyes wide, his slightly trembling, weakened body tense with agony and fear. “Forget it. You know I don’t do… needles. I just… no. I’m fine. Just the flu or whatever. I’m still alive so whatever it was, not deadly. Moving on.” - “I don’t do _deaths_. You won’t die on me if it ever comes to that. You told me to not be egotistical when I wanted to go and I am telling you the same thing now. If you die on me, Natasha will go berserk. I really don’t want to see her with a broken heart. People might get hurt.” - “Yeah, well, nobody’s dying.” Clint sounded defensive, almost aggressive. “I’m not dying. I’m not gonna die. So just… stop it. I’m not your pincushion or somethin’. I’m fine. All better. I even ate something and kept it in, see?” He couldn’t stop his voice from getting a slightly higher pitch as soon as the topic came to needles, his pupils wide with panic. He would rather fight to his last breath than be stung while conscious. He made that perfectly clear.  
Bruce didn’t think about it, just put his hand out and on Clint’s head, petting him like Natasha had done in the living room. “I am sorry. I didn’t want to make it sound so harsh and… I am just really, really not in my best spot right now.” He sighed again and closed his eyes. Robert chuckled and walked the room. _”I sense a deeeeep conversation coming up. Really, I’m gonna sit that one out. Call me, Bruce, as soon as you’re finished here... Don’t be a stranger.”_

Clint relaxed under the touch of his hand, sunk back in his cushion and thereby closer to Bruce, rather by accident than on purpose it seemed. His skin was still slightly feverish, sweaty and hot, a slight tremor in the tight muscles underneath. He seemed sleepy all of a sudden as the drug was taking its first side-effect, his head rolling to Bruce’s shoulder and his entire body leaning against the smaller scientist, trustingly. “Just… don’t poke me with anything while I’m out,” he murmured, half-asleep already.

Bruce looked down at him, feeling somehow... well. Warm. Trusted. That was a new one. When… he didn’t think that Clint had ever just slept next to anyone, except Natasha. There was a trust in that that shook Bruce and something in him clenched and unclenched and didn’t know what to do about that. So he just watched Clint drifting off to sleep, his head warm and heavy on Bruce’s shoulder. His hair was tickling Bruce’s nose and he scrunched it a little bit. “This is so totally unfair, getting all cute on me without a warning…” He didn’t mind though. Also he started to feel protective, which was… well, stupid. Clint was stronger and faster than him. Younger too, not in a I-am-a-kid-and-need-protection kind of way but like in 'his bones do not make these funny noises when he stands up too fast'.

But he was probably still a kid in some emotional ways and Bruce thought about him and Natasha and how it was not good that these two weren’t as happy as they could have been.  
So perhaps Bruce should do something about that.  
And he should protect Clint. Yes, he really should do that. Make him move in the tower, him and Natasha. Tony would go through the roof and really it would make… stuff… easier.  
He finally came to sleep himself, his arm around Clint and his head nuzzled in Clint’s hair.

 

**II**

 

He woke up thirsty. His throat felt as if it had been sliced open multiple times. Food, he realized. He’d eaten salty and hot food and he’d not drunk as much as he should have because he couldn’t taste the spices. He was all sweaty, his mind still clouded by sleep, or was it… was this what Bruce had warned him about? The drugs? He didn’t know. But he was disoriented and slightly dizzy although he was lying down right now and there was a body right next to his.

THERE WAS A BODY RIGHT NEXT TO HIS. Behind him, spooning him, clutching him close, strangely cold and hard and _strong_. He felt weak. _Must be the drugs..._ He felt also cold, and there was this dizziness… this cloudiness… oh crap. He was losing control. His pulse started quickening all by itself.

“Stop shaking.” The body behind his moved a little bit, big hands pressing against his belly. “It’s all good. All fine. You’re okay. Sssssssch…. I’m here, it’s all gonna be okay.” One hand sneaked under his shirt and started rubbing circles on his flesh. _What… no… this is wrong, all wrong…_ Shivers ran through Clint’s body, he tried to fight his way free, but he was still not sure where he was, what was happening, this felt like a dream, a really, really freakish dream and he was a kid again, a little kid, he was all alone with a stranger in the dark and he couldn’t help himself and he felt _scared_.  
“Shall I get Feelings to calm you down? It’s sleepy-time. It’s all good, believe me. _Sleep_. You need it.” The hands didn’t let go. Now there was also breathing in his neck, the body moved and then there were legs over his, pulling him closer.  
He knew that voice, but it was wrong, it was all wrong, those hands on his body, rubbing over his skin, gliding under his clothing, he felt every touch, he was overly conscious, widely awake and still dizzy and sort of out of it. His body reacted, his skin crawled and all his instincts told him to run away, to get the hell out of here, but his head was all cloudy and his limbs were all messed up and weak.  
“Sssssssch. I could sing you a song my mum always sang.”  
“No… please… don’t…” He begged, but he did never beg, he _could_ not beg, it was wrong, it wouldn’t help anyway and _where the hell is your pride, Barton_ , he needed to get away but he just couldn’t bring himself to pull free, the other person was so much stronger and there was proximity and hands on his skin and something else, that breath at the back of his neck. _What’s happening to me?_ All he wanted was to get out but he couldn’t. _It’s not so bad, is it? It doesn’t hurt._ But it was wrong. It felt _wrong_ and it felt _right_ and he was still so cloudy… so cloudy...

There was a sigh, a deeply felt one. “Really… this doesn’t bode well for any kind of fun to be had with you. Does cuddling always make you this edgy?” There was movement and then Clint was on his back and something heavy was on him and then the lamp on the nightstand was switched on. There was enough light to see Banner, who stretched, yawned and ruffled his own hair. He still sat very snuggly on Clint’s abdomen, forcing him to stay put. “Is it okay, now you see me? Or is it something different?”

“What… Bruce…” He didn’t understand. Something was off. This just didn’t seem right, any of it, Bruce’s weight on his body, the sight of another man over him in this angle, this particular angle that wasn’t for other men… not like this. But it was Bruce. It was fine, right? Bruce wouldn’t hurt him. It had just been a bad dream. It must have been. “You start to look homophobic, little bird.” Banner smiled down on him, an amused glint in his eye. Then he bent down for one second and kissed Clint on the mouth. “Normally you’re doing that. Did Stark invent some kind of sexrobot in your dream?”

Everything went tense and scary and awkward, but the cruellest part about this nightmare wasn’t Banner, it wasn’t the proximity or the strange homoeroticism, it was Barton’s own body responding. He didn’t want to, but he could feel his muscles tensing up, his breath going faster, even his pulse speeding as if this wasn’t Bruce, as if this was Tasha. Even his lips met Bruce's and they kissed him _back_ although that was just wrong, Stark wasn’t here, there was no point in messing with anyone… _Aphrodisiac_ , a small voice whispered in his ear, but he couldn’t remember who had said it and when and what did that even _mean_ , little blue pills and _Banner smacked his head… no… No, no pills… Just the liquid and then you’re stoned, Barton._  
Bruce cocked his head and smiled. “Well. This is kinda nice.” He rolled his hips and then took one of Clints arms and licked across his wrist, tasting his pulse. “You _like_ that. And here I thought you didn’t enjoy my cuddling-style.”

He didn’t like that at all, he wanted Banner to stop, just stop, but his head was all fuzzy and he just shook it, shook it, murmured “No”, but why didn’t it sound stronger, why was he so weak, why was he so freaking trembling and aroused, he didn’t want it, he wasn’t into men and he knew it now more than ever, he just wanted out but Banner didn’t seem to listen to what he was saying. “No, please, please… don’t…”, but he might just as well have begged for more because his fucking body responded and it tensed up and revolted, but so weakly that it was more of an offering, not a real fight, but he wanted to fight, he had to fight, he couldn’t just give himself up like that.

“Don’t do that.” Banner bent over him again and then he lay on him, body pressed on body and he kissed the words of Clint’s lips. It wasn’t a chaste kiss anymore. It was all tongue and teeth and harsh breathing into his lips. And then there were hands again, pushing up his shirt, and Clint tried to make it stop, he tried, but his efforts were so laughably weak, so pitiful, he knew they were, he just couldn’t do anything more, he couldn’t even scream or beg or cry any more because there were lips on his lips and a tongue in between, opening his mouth and reaching out for his, hard.  
When Banner pulled back a little bit, he put his thumb on Clint’s lips and sweeped the saliva away. “Don’t say please. Don’t say no. I’d really just rather enjoy this. Such a nice way to wake up.”  
“Please… no…” It was all the words he had left, and he reared up, he was rearing up with everything he had but it was just too little, it felt as if he was inviting Bruce to take him, it was as if he was putting up this fight out of playfulness, not because he really didn’t want it. And he hated himself for his weakness and the loss of words and for the pulse in his loins that begged for more where he just wanted it to _stop_ , please, just stop… _Don’t do this to me, Bruce, don’t, I’m begging you, just don’t…_

“Please and no… really, I don’t enjoy these words that much. Can’t you try a ‘yes’ for me?” He smiled . It was a sweet smile, playful and full of affection. Banners hand sneaked between their bodies and slid down on the bulb in Clint’s trousers, rubbing it almost experimentally. “One small ‘yes Robert’, is that too much to ask?”  
And he felt the groan, he felt it inside of him and he hated it and he tried to stop it, tried to throw Bruce off, but all he did was jerk against his hand that was there, between his legs, where it shouldn’t be, where it wasn’t _supposed_ to be… and there was that name, that name… He knew that name. “Bruce…” He groaned, again, and the hand kept rubbing him and there were lips on his again and a whisper in his ear, dominant, stronger than he was right now.  
“Well… that will have to do for the moment” Robert bit in his ear and let his hand sneak deeper, between cotton and flesh. His movement was sure and purposeful. “You really are a pretty one. So precious. Such a good boy.”  
And Clint let out a surprised little cry, more shock than pain, and he tried to fight him off, he tried so hard but whatever he did, it was more amusement than fight, it was weak, so weak. “I don’t want to,” he finally managed to say, his voice a painful little tremble like the song of a bird on its deathbed.  
The hand stopped and Banner cocked his head. The tip of his tongue was there between his lips. His hand stayed where it was, an oddly cold pressure where there should never be such a big, strong, callused hand. Banner bent over again. His lips were at his ear, his other hand had it’s fingers dancing over his throat. “You’re sure, precious bird? Because come morning it will all be just a dream and what harm is in a little, nice dream? I could pull away, or I could go down on you, put my lips around your cock and make you forget that there is anything wrong about this. It would be _relieving_ , don’t you think? Soothing and alright and just a dream. We all have dreams we choose to forget. I won’t remind you, unless you want me too.”

He was shuddering now, panic and passion and the painful fight for control rushing through him, and his brain knew what it wanted, it wanted Banner to just stop, go away, go away and never return and he tried to push him off, his weak limbs trying one last rebellion, but they betrayed him, why did they betray him, and there was a hand at his throat and one at his shaft and he wanted to just get away, get away and forget this nightmare, never think of it again, but all he could say was “Please”, once more, and he couldn’t bring it to him to form a complete sentence, not with the fog in his head, he just murmured “yes, please” and he begged the man to make it stop, to get off of him, to leave him be and never touch him again.

The man rumbled with a little chuckle, a chuckle that went through his whole body. “Well… that wasn’t so hard now, was it? Although you might want to keep in mind” and for this he was at his ear again, whispering, hot breath on feaverish skin, as if someone might be able to hear, “never answer a question of ‘either/or’ with a ‘yes’. It gives me the opportunity to pick the answer I’d like to get.”  
And then both hands were at his trousers and there was a pull and cold air and the man kissed him again, shoving his tongue in his mouth like he was searching for something, someone he could take captive.

Clint tried to get up, but he was swaying and trembling and his loins were on fire, and his body jerked up but it send the wrong message, always the wrong message, and he hated this, but part of him actually seemed to like it although it made him nauseated, but he couldn’t puke, Bruce’s medicine again, it robbed him even of his revulsion.  
The man’s mouth was at his throat, sucking and leaving a bruise there and Clint groaned painfully and tried to fight it, tried to fight the burning mark on his skin and then Robert’s mouth wandered down, leaving love-bites everywhere. The man hummed and sometimes there were sung words in between. _Now I’m a believer, I couldn’t leave her, if I tried…_

“Always knew you were something special, little bird.” His breath was against Clint’s cock and then he chuckled. “Always where you shouldn’t be. I remember you falling at my feet at this carnival, hurting your wing.” His hands were everywhere and Clint could smell him, this smell of bananas on his breath and of pizza-cartons on the floor and of sweat and something earthy, that was Bruce’s smell, he recognized it and he knew he would never be able to forget how cold his hands were and how hard his lips, painful kisses on his skin, leaving their marks of shame on his body and tossing him deeper and deeper into an abyss and he tried to just zone out, go to a happy place, because he knew that now it was just lust, but there was pain coming, a lot of pain, and he knew he couldn’t take it and he couldn’t fight it, but there was no happy place, his brain was all messed up and the only thing he could really concentrate on was the urge in his body and the burning sensation Robert’s tongue and lips and hands left everywhere. Then these lips and the tongue were at the one place they really shouldn’t be and there was sucking and breathing and goddamn chuckling. Fingers brushed over Clints body, pushed into his mouth.

And then there was white and something forced out of him and he screamed hoarsely and jerked up in relief, a spasm running through his body as he came, and the sinking feeling that now the pain would come.  
The fingers were at his hair again, pushing strands back and a kiss was put against the skin over his eyes and it was wetter than it had been before and then on his eyes and his nose and Clint could smell himself in that kiss. “You are adorable.” That voice was warm and sincere and then there were lips against Clint’s lips again and he tasted something salty.

“I’ll just get rid of something. But you should probably drink something, dear. You didn’t sound so well.” The man stood up, brought him a glass of water and forced it down his throat. And Clint gulped and tried to fight him and felt only weaker than before, his legs trembling and his fever rising and the fear taking over him because he knew what was coming next and he didn’t _want_ to and he knew Banner would just rip him apart. Robert went into the adjoining bathroom and Clint could hear noises that he didn’t want to identify, but the grunt at the end was very telling. When the man came back, he had a wet towel with him and he cleaned Clint up, the mess between his legs and all the sweat and then he went and came back and put clean, warm clothes on Clint.

And Clint felt a relief and the rush of panic leaving his body and also a wave of shame and hurt crushing over him, he felt the sob rising in him that he didn’t want Banner to see, Robert had taken almost everything from Clint and he didn’t want to give him his dignity, too, not that too, so he pressed his lips together and rolled on the side and hid his face between his arms and felt the tremble rush through him, uncontrollably, and he knew he was crying but he kept it in as best he could, even if that was the only thing he could keep to himself.  
Banner sat down on the bed beside him and played with his hair, making soothing sounds, singing that song under his breath again. “You thought I would hurt you, but I didn’t. I just hurt people who need to be hurt. I’ll look after you. Protect you. Tomorrow morning this will be just a dream and there might come a time when you won’t think it that bad. There are worse dreams. Nothing bad happened. You are okay. Bruce is okay. Everything will be fine. I’ll be here.”

But Clint couldn’t answer, he could all but scream and if he hadn’t been so weak, so out of it, he might have jumped up and left but he just couldn’t, he didn’t even know where to go because this was _his_ fucking room, his own room and now he would never be able to sleep in here again, to relax in here again and there was the fucking song again, _’I’m a believer, I couldn’t leave her if I tried’,_ and he remembered the carnival and Robert’s words and he knew it was true, he knew that that had been him in the shadows, pouring something on Swordsman until the man begged and cried and pleaded him to just stop, just stop it, just like Clint had been pleading and hadn’t been heard. Cold shivers were running through his body, again and again and again while Robert’s fingers never stopped caressing his hair, while the other man curled back up behind him, taking him back into his cold, strong arms,, but there was also numbness in his head and at some point, finally, he just _left_ , the drug taking over and forcing him under, shutting of his consciousness just like Robert shut off the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:**  
>  There is puking and fainting. There is drugging. And there is taking advantage of someone being drugged out of their mind resulting in a rather one-sided, graphic sexual scene. Nothing violent, but it's from the victim's perspective and...
> 
> Well. Just because someone doesn't harm you physically, doesn't mean they don't hurt you. Guess we can all agree on that.
> 
> For all who want to skip that: It's only in part II. Part I should be fine.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Yes. THAT is our idea of slash. You've seen us going at fluff, what did you expect? And Brucey wasn't even THERE for it. Not really. But Robert's nice too, you'll see.


	15. 14. You're Freaking Me Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's triggering Clint and trying to explain Bruce. They're not helping.
> 
> None of this makes it okay for Clint to defile the Thornton Squad by using David's name. How very naughty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end notes for **trigger warnings.**

  
** 14\. You’re freaking me out **

_What the hell's going on?_  
 _Have you gone undercover?_  
 _You were here, now you're not_  
 _Been replaced by another_

_Cause it's still your face but there's something strange_  
 _Not the one I remember, can you please explain?_  
 _Did they wipe your brain? Is this gonna be forever?_

_Cause everything you say, everything you do_  
 _Is freaking me out, freaking me out_  
 _You know we used to be the same..._  
 _Who the hell are you?_  
 _Freaking me out, freaking me out_  
 _And I swear I thought I knew you_  
 _But although that was yesterday_  
 _And now you turn it around_  
 _What's that about?_  
 _Cause you're freaking me out, freaking me out..._

 

**I**

Stark Tower, NYC | October 1, 2013

Bruce yawned and stretched. He felt well rested and content and for a moment he snuggled closer to the warm body beside him. There was a heart beating under his hands and the skin was warm and smelled of salt and soap. Bruce wanted to sleep or doze a little bit more but he was awake and slowly his thoughts crawled in his mind and told him that there was something wrong about him cuddling with someone.  
He blinked and saw blond strands before his eyes.  
 _Clint._ Well. He was glad that the man was not awake. He might have misunderstood the fact that Bruce’s hand had found its way under his shirt. Perhaps he had been cold in the night, searching for warmth. It had been quite some time since he had slept in close proximity to another human being.  
He put his fingers at Clint’s throat, felt the pulse and then he put his hand on his forehead. His body temperature felt normal to the touch.His pulse was fluttering, but perhaps he was just waking up.  
“I’ll get us breakfast,” Bruce said, stood up, ruffled his hair, yawned again and then shuffled out of the room. The kitchen wasn't that far away and when he got there he nearly stumbled over Thornton. The agent had a cup of coffee in his hands and he was looking at Bruce with a cold stare.  
“Good morning, David,” Bruce tried a smile but all he got was a huff and a “Yeah, I bet it was good for you…”

Bruce tipped his head and looked after Thornton who went away, stiff and hard-necked. Well. And here he had thought that they might have bonded again over him being incarcerated and celebrating his birthday. He watched the retreating agent and then looked up to the camera that was watching him. A smile ghosted over his face. “Well, he didn’t like me sleeping over at Clint’s, did he?”  
“No Sir, I don’t think he did.”  
Bruce shrugged, put croissants and orange juice and donuts and tea in his basket and went back, still yawning. “First Tony, now this. Promise me that you won’t get into a hissy fit if I buy a toaster, JARVIS.”  
“Would it be a pretty toaster, Sir?”

He was still laughing when he entered the room and put the food on the nightstand. “I think we have to get JARVIS a girlfriend. He is lusting over imaginary toasters.”  
Clint was up, no longer lying in bed, but standing right next to the open window, looking down. He turned abruptly as soon as Bruce spoke to him, as if he’d had a scare. His face was a pale milky-grey and he was trembling slightly. But he didn’t say anything, he was just staring back at Banner as if he’d seen a ghost.  
“Are you alright?” Bruce took in his complexion. “Are you experiencing any nausea? You felt fine when I woke up but maybe you’ve got a fever…” He stepped closer, his hand already stretched to be put on Clint’s forehead. Barton, however, retreated. “Nah, I’m fine,” he said, only that this time it sounded hoarse and shaken to the chore, not at all cocky and well-rehearsed like it usually did. It didn’t even sound as if Clint believed it himself, this time.  
“Clint, you’re shaking. You look worse than last night.” Clint’s eyes widened at the words ‘last night’, for a second he looked as if he’d almost winced. It was so _Clint_ to say he was fine. So very, very Clint and Bruce didn’t buy it, not at that moment. He sighed and lowered his hands, putting them on his hips and then he put his glasses on his nose so he could see Clint a little bit clearer. “And I don’t know if we have _met_. Hi, I am Doktor Bruce Banner. I know this ‘fine’, so please don’t insult us both with that. I had perfected that ‘fine’ when you were still wailing away in your cradle, telling everyone you were upset or hurt.”

Clint looked lost. Completely lost, as if he thought he was losing his mind. “Bruce…” Even now, his voice was trembling. “Bruce, what happened… last night?”  
Well… that sounded… strange. “What do you mean? I made you eat and then you started sleeping on my shoulder, so – oh, did you have bad dreams?” THAT made sense. Bruce’s face contorted. Why hadn’t he _thought_ about that? “Oh Clint, I am so sorry… I should have thought about the possibility, that… Natasha gave you something when you were ill, didn’t she?” Bruce pulled his hand through his hair, closed his eyes for a moment and then looked at Clint again. This could have gone so, _so_ wrong. Especially with the RaHus still in his system. “Of course… I didn’t… if meds get mixed in your system, there can be side-effects… I am so, _so_ sorry… how are you feeling? Dizzy?” Clint was still watching him like he might bite, but for a second it even looked as if his eyes were getting bleary, and then he shook his head. “No, not… dizzy. Just…” He shook his head again, taking another step away from Bruce and then, suddenly, pressing his hand over his mouth and rushing past his friend into the bathroom. Bruce didn’t even need to follow him to realize what he was up to. The sounds were quite telling, actually.

Bruce sighed and started feeling a little bit ill himself. Shit. He really should have thought more about the stuff he gave him. What kind of doctor was he? _Well… one with the wrong temperament._  
Bruce leaned at the wall, crossed his arms and closed his eyes. The only reason he wasn’t rushing into the bathroom was that he actually knew how highly Barton appreciated not being seen in a weak state. “Clint… I am right here. Please tell me that there is no blood.”  
His own throat did feel a little bit sore, but he had put it to eating too much after having not eaten enough for quite some time.

For a while, there was just coughing and choking and more hurling noises, then everything became silent for a while. Finally, Bruce could hear the typical flushing and then there was water running and splashing around, until Clint came back out, a little week in his knees, but his back so straight up that it looked as if he was keeping himself together at any cost, desperately trying to look normal or in control. “No blood,” he reported. It was freakishly untypical for him how straight his face was, no smile, not even in the least, no emotion whatsoever. He looked like Natasha when she was hiding behind her spy-mask.

Bruce smiled and cleaned his glasses. “You are forgetting to tell me that you’re fine, agent.” He sighed. He really didn’t want to think about what that dream must have shown Clint. He hadn’t had a very good childhood, Bruce knew that. He took a step closer to Clint, noticing how the man retreated and stopping himself. He hunched his shoulders a little bit, made himself smaller. “Clint… I can see that you don’t want to talk about it, so I’m going to ask this very straight: You want me here? We could watch ‘Pretty Woman’ on Netflix. I actually quite like the main theme so you would have to listen to me singing again.” He really liked that idea. They had food and everything. Bruce didn’t want to leave Clint alone. He sighed when he saw the look on Clint’s face. “But I think I know the answer to that. So… option Nr 2: I’m going down to my lab. I’ll be either there or at the living room. JARVIS can get me at any time and if you start to feel even the slightest illness you will _call me_ and let me take care of you, okay?” Clint nodded mechanically, no answer for a few moments, until he finally said, “Yeah, sure. I’ll call you.” Bruce didn’t believe him for a second. Barton wasn’t the greatest liar to begin with, but right now, he just sucked at it. 

“JARVIS?”, he said with a sigh.  
“Sir?”  
“Report the moment his vitals change, he reeks, he shows dizziness or some other sign of illness, whatever it is, you call me. I don’t care if he says he’s fine, I don’t care if he tells you not to. You fail me, JARVIS, and I will change your voice to Marilyn Monroe.”  
“....understood, Sir.”  
“Fine.” Bruce looked at Clint. He wanted to say so much to this man, this boy but he knew when he really, really shouldn’t. This was not his way. This was a moment where the patient needed to stew, needed alone time, but… Bruce sighed and massaged the point between his eyes. “Just… don’t overdo it Clint, please? For me? Don’t make me force you to spill, to get poison out of your system. I will do it. Sometimes… sometimes puking is something you really have to do. Please show me you understand?”

Clint nodded. He just stood there, and he nodded.

  
**II**

Stark Tower, NYC | October 1, 2013

For a moment after Bruce had left, Clint just stood there, gazing into space, blankly. He didn’t know what to feel. If he still was able to feel something, anything. His gaze wandered over to the bedside table. Croissants. Orange-juice. Oh God.

He rushed back into the bathroom and it was little short of a miracle that he actually made it to the toilet in time. There was little left inside of him to throw up, just some bitter slime and bile and saliva that he spat into the toilet, coughing and gagging and heaving until his banged up thorax hurt so badly that he felt tears running out of his eyes. Then he just sat there, blind and numb and shivering, until he realized that he couldn’t stay in these clothes because _he_ had touched them. He couldn’t stay in them. He started undressing so violently that he actually ripped his shirt, but he didn’t mind, _just take it off, off with it, drop it on the floor._ If only he could have ripped off his skin too, every bit that Robert had touched, rip it off and burn it and forget it, just burn it, incinerate it…

His gaze wandered to the mirror. He could still see the signs of last night, proving him not mad. He wasn’t losing his mind, was he? Last night had happened. It had happened. He touched the bruised love bites, felt the pain, it was real, it was absolutely real and he couldn’t peel them off, they’d stay on him for days, he knew that because he’d had similar marks before.

He did the next best thing, closing the bathroom door rapidly, wanting to lock it behind him but that wasn’t even possible. _Damn you, Stark,_ who built bathrooms that couldn’t even be locked, oh God. No one could see him like this. No. No one. Not ever. He was still shivering when he climbed into the shower, turning on the water and scrubbing himself, not caring how soap and water burnt in his wounds, again and again and again, but he didn’t drown, he wanted to drown and he didn’t and even after he had used up all of his shower gel he still felt dirty, he just couldn’t wash it off, he still felt the fingers rubbing over his skin, those cold, rough hands and those lips and he sobbed, he couldn’t keep it in any longer, breaking down and just sitting there under the running water and losing it, losing everything. He was hugging his knees, pulling his legs close to his body and trying to curl up, curl into himself, just vanish already, die already, but he didn’t, and he wished for that numbness to come back, for the confusion to come back, but it didn’t. He knew what had happened, it played over and over in his head and he couldn’t stop it no matter how many times he roughed up his hair and how strongly his fists were pressed over his eyeballs, how he clawed his fingers over his ears; there were just sounds and sights and sensations that came back to him again and again and he gagged but there was nothing left to get out and so he just sobbed again, crying. He wanted to scream but he suppressed it, stifling it with his own hands, hitting the shower wall, shaking back and forth and back and forth and all the time water was running over him, but it was useless. It was completely useless.

He didn’t know how long he’d sat there.

At some point, the hurt actually went to the background, exhaustion took over and his limbs were feeling so cramped and stiff that he wanted to smash his head against the wall. He seriously considered doing that for a moment.

And then he realized how deeply pathetic he was. He realized only now, only when he almost couldn’t move any more, what had happened to him. He was too exhausted for anger or rage or hatred, too exhausted for more tears. Last night had been like Loki all over again and yet it hadn’t felt anything like Loki. It had been much, much worse. His ledger hadn’t grown. He hadn’t killed anyone. Loki had just pulled his conscience out of him, giving him a new perspective and pushing him to some back row seat. Barton still didn’t remember every last bit of his time as Loki’s weapon. He remembered enough to know he would never forgive himself but… last night…

He remembered every single detail. The smell. The sounds. That song. He would never, ever forget that song or how he had groaned when he came or how his voice had _pleaded_ to stop, inaudible most of the time and yet screaming, shouting in his own ears. Banner’s spell had been a drug and that drug had left him there in the front row seat, fully conscious and highly awake, overly aware of every touch, every sensation. It had taken something else away from him, it had taken the one thing he could always count on, the control over his own limbs, the strength of his trained muscles, the reflexes of a fighter, of a killer. He had been helpless like a child, there and not there at the same time, unable to zone out and forever unable to forget.

Loki had taken his self-perception; he had taken Clint’s control and the peace in his mind. He had taken the moral compass and smashed it, he had opened Clint’s eyes and shown him how dark and twisted he was, how dangerous and how evil.  
Banner had taken something even more important. He had robbed his victim of every last feeling of dignity, of self-control and screwed it over, twisting and burning with a song on his lips and a chuckle that moved his entire body. He had taken Clint’s innermost feeling of security, of sanctity and he had violated it.

And Clint knew it was his own fault. It was his fault. He had trusted Bruce and he had taken the drug in his system and then he’d been too weak to withstand it, he’d complied and he’d done nothing while his body betrayed him and he knew he couldn’t even claim to be a victim. He wasn’t a victim. He had been asking for it, with every motion, with every little gesture, every try to fight it had only made it worse and he couldn’t blame anyone but himself.

 

Finally, he stood up, got out and turned the water off. His legs were trembling, he was trembling. He felt ice-cold, put on some fresh clothes and stared at his bed before he realized he couldn’t lie back in there. Not like this. He pulled off the covers, his hands shaking when he took in the stains, the smells of last night. He felt like puking again but this had to be done first. It had to be done right away. He was almost feverish in his actions, strangely purposeful and clear of mind. He just knew what had to be done.

He had to get rid of it. Of all of it.

He realized he didn’t even want the blanket or the cushion or the mattress, but if he burnt those too, Stark would notice. He couldn’t do that, so he just put fresh sheets on everything, cleaning up the mess and stuffing all the reminders of last night into a duffel bag he found in his closet.

When he was done, everything clean and sanitized, he washed his hands until he’d used up all the soap in the tiny bathroom, but it didn’t really help.

He packed what little of his things were still lying around in this room into a second bag and got out of there. He would never sleep in here again. Never. He straightened up before he opened the door to go out in the hallway. He’d cooled his red eyes with water, and he put on a casual mask now. He knew that he could keep it together. This wasn’t his first rodeo. He just had to go undercover, discarding all personal feelings and finding himself a new personality, someone he could vanish into, someone strong, detached, someone funny and normal and _whole_.

He had almost made it to the elevator unchallenged when he met Stark. “Moving out?” The billionaire looked at him and his two duffel bags with raised eyebrows, only mildly interested.  
“Nah, just… SHIELD called. There’s a little something they want me to take a look at.”  
Tony shook his head. “And they don’t have agents who _won’t_ spill their lunch over the briefing package?”  
Clint forced a smile on his lips. “Not a mission, Stark. Just some counselling. I’m a specialist too, remember?” – “At least tell me you’ve eaten this time. I don’t want Romanov on my case again because you can’t take care of your own blood sugar, Birdie-Brains. Hey, you’ve seen Banner? Neither of you guys was at breakfast.”  
“Yeah, we had breakfast in my room. He stayed with me overnight. Wanted to make sure I’d keep my pizza down this time, I guess. Should be in his lab by now or in the living room.” Clint shrugged. “Honestly, I’m glad you don’t freak out like everyone else.” – “That’s because I know you’re only playing fragile to get his attention,” Tony joked and Clint managed to laugh at that, although it felt hollow and wrong and he wished he could rush back under the shower.

“Yeah, well, gotta roll. I’ll see you around, Stark.”

He didn’t even wait for an answer and Tony didn’t stop him for more talk. The elevator doors closed behind him, but Clint kept his undercover persona on like an armour while he got out at ground level and made his way through the lobby, running into Pepper who excused herself for not being there the night before, she’d had to work and bla bla bla and he smiled and made a joke and told her she hadn’t missed a thing and they’d soon have another movie night, just the two of them, maybe they could trash talk High School Musical this time or some teeny comedy and if she thought him strange because he forced the being-cheerful-part too much, she seemed to think that was because of his being sick.

And then he was out on the streets and the first thing he did was take the SIM card out of his cell phone, the battery too and then he took a cab as soon as possible, let the guy drive him to the other side of town and took another cab there and so on and so forth, five cabs in a row. Natasha had brought him his wallet a few nights back and he had a lot of cash in there because he was always prepared for moments like this when he had to go dark.

When he was sure that any pursuer would have a hard time catching up with him now because he’d always walked one or two blocks before taking the next cab and there had been no real plan in where he was going, as long as he kept moving, he found himself a phone booth and called his brother’s contact on the number he’d been given, said the pass code and hung up. Then he waited until the phone rang and picked it up.

Barney sounded stressed out, but he, too, was too careful to say any names or specifics. _“I heard. You okay?!”_ There was a certain urgency to his question, he sounded horrible. Guilt-ridden and scared.  
“Shaken up. But I’ll live. You?” – _“I’m so sorry…”_  
Clint gritted his teeth. “Don’t go there. Don’t you dare go there. We knew what we were getting ourselves into. Just tell me you’re fine.” – _“I am.”_  
Relief like this shouldn’t even be possible in the state Clint found himself in, but there it was. Hope and relief and gratitude to whatever deity or angel was watching over his Brother. “Okay. You still clear?” – _“They think they’ve got me by the balls after that message they send me.”_  
Clint nodded although Barney couldn’t see that, obviously. “Well don’t let ‘em get to you. I’m a big boy.” – _“You always were a pathetic liar, you know that, Crumbs?”_  
The younger Barton smiled, sadly. “Yeah, well. Listen… I’ve gotta go out of town for a few days. Run down a lead for another… case. You got something to write?” – _“Yeah.”_

Clint gave him Natasha’s private cell number, the one no one had but a few exclusive people, her closest friends and people outside of SHIELD and outside of the whole spy community. Then they finished their call without any terms of endearment. They knew what they meant to each other.

Clint knew Natasha’d be okay with him giving away her number. _‘I’m in’_ , her voice rang in his ears and he knew what the look in her eyes had meant when he told her this was like Tokio. ‘I’m your family, too.’ And she was. She would take care of Barney if need be. She was damn fine backup, better than him at the moment, actually. She wouldn’t be fine with him leaving town and not telling anyone where he was going or why he was leaving. She would be furious. Well, he’d deal with that when he got back. He couldn’t talk to her right now, look her in the eyes. He also couldn’t take on Zemo’s troops, not in the shape he was in mentally. His physical shape didn’t worry him half as much. He had to pull himself together first. Get his head back in the game. He couldn’t do that with Bruce around, though, with all the doubts that ripped him apart inside out, with the confusion. He didn’t know what to believe, he didn’t know what was happening but it freaked him out bad. _‘Robert’_ , the man last night had said. Robert. Not Bruce.

Bruce had mentioned a Robert before. His imaginary childhood friend. Clint was a good listener and he had always been good with names. But he was also good with faces and that last night… that had been Bruce. No evil twin, no, it had been Bruce down to the last unruly curl of hair, even the scar had been there, the big, red one that Clint had seen that day they had been shopping and Bruce had undressed in his apartment to shake Maya off their scent. He was sure.

So how was that possible? Bruce didn’t seem to remember last night at all, not the creepy part, anyways. Just thinking about that drove another tear to Clint’s eyes and he HATED himself for that. He hated this weakness. He hated being victimized like that. He was STRONG. He was in CONTROL. He wouldn’t let anyone take that away from him. Not Robert, not Bruce, and at this point, he didn’t know what to believe any more. He just knew he needed answers and fast.

So. Los Angeles. It had all started in Los Angeles where Bruce’s aunt and uncle lived, where his cousin had put drawings of him and of Robert on the fridge. He’d find answers there. Hopefully. It would also give him the possibility to get out of town for a few days. He was on medical leave, it wasn’t as if SHIELD would miss him anyhow except for the fact that he needed an alibi at all times and he was messing with that concept. Tasha would freak out. But she knew he could take care of himself. She knew she could trust in him not doing anything so stupid it got him killed.  
She’d kill him when he got back. Maybe. Probably. Pretty damn certainly.

Well, not his concern right now. He had a plan and he needed to stick to it. And fast, before any of his fellow teammates figured out he had lied to Stark and given them all the slip. They wouldn’t like that.

_Run fast, Barton. Run far. And don’t look back._ This was his game. And he was damn good at it.

  
**III**

Hawthorne Highschool, LA | October 3, 2013

Schools were a pretty good place to start a search like this. Schools kept records and teachers remembered, but most of them didn’t think an awful much about their students’ privacy, other than doctors or therapists or… catholic priests. He couldn't be sure if there were any of the teachers left who had taught Bruce, but he had to take his chances. He would search here, first. He couldn’t know if Bruce’s uncle and aunt wouldn’t call their nephew as soon as some agent showed up at their place and asked a whole lot of crazy questions. And the guy was _smart_. He had been running from the military for years. Hell, he wasn’t just smart. He was a fucking genius. That was part of the problem.  
And Bruce had said he had been expelled. _I had been mean._ Well… Clint surely wanted to know what _that_ had meant, now.

Hawthorne High School was like any other school Clint had seen in his life. And he’d seen quite a few, switching schools whenever the carnival moved on to the next town. It was all white, exclusively clear lines. There were pictures in the hallways, everything inside was… stylish, but in a forced kind of way and they seemed to have a decent cheerleading squad. The school’s motto was everywhere: ‘Mens sana in corpore sano’ - _A sound mind in a sound body_.

Mrs Meeks – the headmistress – was a stout woman. She was short but emitted some kind of strength and sureness that made you look up to her, even though she was smaller than Tom Cruise. There was grey in her brown hair and an eternal frown on her lips. “You must be Agent Thornton. We spoke on the phone earlier, I am Mrs Meeks.” She shook his hand and then turned around. She just assumed that he would follow her. Her office was small and taken over by all the files at the back. There were no nippets on her desk. It was all very clear and very _business_.  
She sat down and folded her hands on the desk. “I understand that you are investigating one of our former students? You didn’t mention his name on the phone.” 

“Yes, that is correct.” Clint opened a little pad as if he had to check the name again to remember it correctly. “A ‘Robert Bruce Banner’. I was hoping you still had files on him, anything really that would help us build a profile, Ma’am.” He adjusted his jacket (he wore a rather formal suit, even a tie, and glasses. All for the sake of getting into Thornton’s bureaucratic personality, nevermind the fact that Thornton’s eyes were working perfectly. The glasses helped when it came to looking harmless). “Banner.” She _spit_ the name out and then her frown deepened and it seemed that the temperature in the room dropped by approximately 20 degrees. “If you’re looking for a serial killer, I can assure you: It was him.” She said it like she had never been so sure about something in her life before. “The files burnt some time ago. Never really… well it was _curious_. But I had just started teaching back then. So… anything in particular you want to know?”

Clint’s eyes widened for a moment, he didn’t need to hide his surprise because his undercover identity, too, would be surprised by that. “First of all… if you don’t mind my asking… that’s a rather harsh opinion on one of your students, Mrs Meeks.” He said it as non-judgingly as humanly possible. “Would you care to elaborate on your statement?” She sighed and looked tired for a moment. Old and frickle. “Well… yes, I guess it is. And we all knew what we were getting into back then. It’s just… I have waited for over twenty years for someone like you to come and ask questions about him. You know about his childhood? The years seven to ten, before they decided that he was fit for a normal school?”

Clint frowned. He chose to only give her little pieces, bits of information, get her talking. He wanted to hear it from her rather than giving her the entire SHIELD file on a silver platter. This piece of the bigger picture was actually what he had hoped for, coming here. He had been pretty sure Bruce’s family might be reluctant to talk about any trauma, but teachers? Teachers loved to hear their own voices. Part of the reason most of them chose that career, a little bit like actors and politicians, they were just craving the attention. That was what made them so excellent targets for intel-gathering. “I think I read something about him being an orphan. He grew up at his aunt’s and uncle’s starting age ten, didn’t he?”  
“He’s not an orphan. At least he wasn’t when he came here. His father was put in an asylum for the criminally insane.” She looked at Clint while she said that, watching his reactions. He was careful to look positively shocked. Give her more reason to continue. People liked to gossip, especially when you gave them credit for their stories. “That’s… not in our files.” He scribbled away on the pad.  
“Brian Banner. Genius, or so they say. Well, if it is not in your files, then you probably don’t know that he killed his wife. Robert’s mother.”

“I don’t understand… his files suggest that she died in an accident when Robert was seven. Do you know who would try to obscure something like that?” He pushed the glasses up his nose. Glasses were good. You could hide behind them, veil your eyes. Helpful. And they made you look less dangerous. More intelligent. Teachers liked kids with glasses. Most of them were better at school or at least teachers tended to think they were, as if bad eyes were somehow a given for anyone with a higher IQ.  
Mrs Meeks just looked at him. There was something sad in her eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe Robert did that himself. I would have, had I his intelligence.” 

Clint nodded sympathetically. “And because of that trauma he went through you believe he might have become a perpetrator too, come adulthood?” - “I’m saying he never had much of a chance. If his father had _just_ killed his mother… then… maybe. But that wasn’t the… _scary_ part about it. And he didn’t wait for adulthood to become… dangerous.” She sighed again, looked at him and then went very cold while listing ‘facts’. “His mother was killed by his father. It is a fact. It seems that the boy had been physically abused by his father before that. Beaten. The mother came home early and witnessed the whole thing. Brian Banner beat his wife to death. She lay there in the living room the whole day and in the middle of the night, he and Robert went out in the backyard, made a hole and buried her.” She looked at him over her glasses. “These are the facts. This is what we know. Robert was seven. His father started babbling about that when the boy turned ten. What we don’t know is what happened in these three years while that child was being homeschooled. There were… medical reports. I can’t recite them, but I don’t think I need to. So no. I don’t think that he ever really had a chance. Back then I thought differently. But I was young and foolish and well. He _did_ surprise us all.”

Clint didn’t need to play this one. The blood was leaving his face all by itself while she listed her facts. _My father killed my mother right before my eyes. He’s still alive._ He felt sick and he wasn’t so sure if it was the damn flu (which had him more troubled than he let on because seriously, he NEVER got sick. Next to his constant injuries, he just couldn’t be sick, too, if he had been he could have spend his entire life in bed). “How so?” He cleared his throat, took off the glasses and started cleaning them as if he was so shaken that he needed to take his eyes off her for a moment. Normal people would have been even more shaken than he was right now, he knew it, so he played it, piling on his actual emotion. She thought he was some sort of profiler. She had no idea he was a killer and had seen worse than that mental image she had painted for him. Though… not much worse. Yeah, it was pretty much up there.

“He was… quiet. Eerily so. It was to be expected, I guess.” She looked nearly mournful. It was obvious that she remembered these days quite detailed and for a moment she seemed lost in memories. _I was a quiet child, liked to stick to myself._ He remembered how Bruce had told his story about his childhood, a story that meant to be cuddly and warm, but had freaked out Clint a little bit back then, too. Sure. He and Barney had been ‘through hell’, too, as they said about kids who had been hurt by their fathers. Different, but pretty similar kind of hell. At least they hadn’t watched how their dad killed their mother, the bastard had had the good style to use a car as murder weapon for that and the nicety to do it when the boys weren’t with them for once. They, too, hadn’t been normal. He had been bullied in school, just like Barney. Their reaction had been extreme, starting to secretly train each other into fighters, until they were strong and brutal enough to withstand the other kids at school. That wasn’t normal. They had beaten the crap out of each other for years to come, just so they could do so to other kids, too. Defense? It had been offense. He believed it up to this day: Offence is the best defense. This was one of the reasons why he was here right now, wasn’t it? He needed to defend himself, and if he was supposed to do that, he needed something. Intel or leverage or anything, he was grasping at straws here. Barney’s and his childhood decision had been disturbing, come to think of it. So yeah, he got that kids who had been through the proverbial hell weren’t, well, _normal_ and even without being one of these children, Mrs Meeks seemed to understand it too. And yet Bruce stuck out. Why?

“He… wasn’t good with other children. Kept to himself. He didn’t know how to interact with people and we all thought: Well. It will heal. He was… he was being bullied. Sometimes it was obvious, other times… not so much. But his reaction was always the same: _I am fine._ He had this smile then. He _never_ smiled, that was the scary part about it. He only smiled when he told us that he was fine. And we would have believed him every time, had he not been saying that while we got him out of a dumpster.” Clint couldn’t help it, he smiled, sadly but he smiled. He knew it was stupid and impulsive, but well, that was _his_ move. And it seemed Banner hadn’t been lying when he told him that he had invented that one. So Bruce had never actually tried to barton anyone. Barton had been bannering everyone else all of these years. That was… ironic. There was a joke in here somewhere. Probably. A pretty pitiful, bad joke. But yeah. 

“He will start to get around eventually. That’s what we thought. And then I made him take these tests. I swear to God: Now, whenever I see a child with a book too… _complicated_ for its age, I just look the other way and hope that everyone else will do the same. He had not been a good student till then. Mediocre at best. But then I saw this book about quantum mechanics and he told me _he was sorry_ and I called his uncle and aunt. I made him take IQ-tests. Pretty much every IQ-test there is. After that we at least knew one of the things Banner had taught his son in these three years: That his intelligence was something to hide, to be ashamed of even. He saw it as a flaw.”

Clint tipped his pen against his lips, frowning deeply. This was close to the same thing Banner had told him, back in the kitchen, before sleeping in on his lap, except for the part where it got interesting. Bruce had thought his intelligence a monstrosity and a part of him did it up to this day, didn’t it? Clint remembered stuff again. _“You’re a SHIELD agent. I am sure you are of more than average intelligence.”_ Right. Even smart people got stuff wrong sometimes, it seemed. _“I didn’t call you stupid, did I?”_ No, Bruce, you didn’t. You didn’t need to and damnit, stop apologizing about everything already! _“I have an above measurable IQ,”_ and then again _“I am sorry.”_ That damn apology all the time. It made sense now, didn’t it? When you were a kid, you believed stuff. Clint knew it to be true. People could only tell you so many times that you were trash before you actually started to believe them. Speaking of which, there was still Clint’s personal favourite: _“I am a freak of nature.”_ He felt angry and hot and he wanted to punch someone. He just hadn’t figured out how to punch the guy he was angry at yet, without hurting the other guy who was stuck in the same meatsuit. If his suspicions were correct and he had that strange feeling they were. He felt even sicker.

The headmistress looked Clint in the eye then. There was some kind of shame on her face. “We put him in a higher class and he didn’t hold back anymore. Which means he knew _everything._ He was three years younger than the boys there. I don’t think I have to tell you that the bullying got worse.”  
“You’re not to blame, Ma’am. You probably thought you did him a favour.”  
“Well… to be quite frank, I don’t think… Like I said: he was a lost cause. No one wanted to say that, no one wanted to believe it but well. He was… he was being bullied. We couldn’t do a thing because he wouldn’t tell but it did not make it _right_ what he did afterwards. There was one incident. It seems that the other students had made him drink alcohol. He wasn’t in school for three days, being ill as his uncle would inform us. And when he came back he was _fine_ and he smiled and then he went downstairs and he built a bomb.” She looked up at him, sharply. “Is that in your files, agent? That he built a bomb that could have taken out three blocks of this city? With tape and vacuum-cleaners and broken TVs and chemicals from the students’ labs?”

Clint opened his mouth in shock, only this time it was all fake. He had seen this one coming. _Three lies: “I was kicked out of highschool. I had been mean.”_ He remembered that game and he would always remember it because it made him flinch on the inside. It made him feel like crap. It had been the first time when he had thought Banner wasn’t the nice, shy guy that Natasha saw in him. He had that dark side. Maybe that had been _him_ for the first time, maybe that had just been Bruce being a dick. One way or the other - it had been creepy. And Clint was pretty sure that the guy who had built the bomb was the same guy who had… done… STUFF… with him the other night.

And that was the bastard he needed to kill. He just had to figure out how to do that without hurting Bruce and especially without levelling half of New York City.

He then remembered that he was supposed to be talking to someone right now. “No.” He shuffled his feet, a little bit like Bruce did it from time to time. “No. Someone did a good job wiping these things.” _Only I don’t think that was Bruce. Or ‘Robert’. I think that was Ross, that bastard. He wanted to have a nice shiny new asset, so he wiped that file and made Bruce an employee to the military, no matter how many lives it might cost. God. I wish I could put an arrow through HIS eye-socket. Maybe I will. One day._ But Clint didn’t believe that and the reason was only too simple. Scumbags like Ross were like cockroaches. You could throw a nuke on them and they’d survive, you’d just kill everything else between them and yourself.

“He made a game out of it.” The woman shivered. “He had closed the doors. Barricaded them electronically. He wouldn’t let anyone leave. He said he was sorry and we had to be punished for being mean. It took hours till it was over. It took two hours to find out that he was the one who had made the bomb. Everyone was afraid and a few of the older guys… and a teacher… tried to _make_ him disable the bomb. Some begged. And when that didn’t helped, they… beat him. He was covered in blood, but... When the firemen came in, he laughed. He _giggled._ He was fifteen years old and he wouldn’t stop giggling about that. They later found that one little contact hadn’t been put in properly. It couldn’t explode.”

“What I’ve learned in my line of work,” Clint tried to comfort her, “is that sometimes, we can’t prevent these things from happening. It’s like you said, between that background and the bullying and his IQ-level it was just a matter of time until he… well… _snapped_.” He didn’t really think that. He knew whom he blamed. The father. And the bullies. Those damn egotistical dumb little bastards. He had been there. He’d been bullied. Only that he hadn’t been a genius, he’d been a scrawny little kid in baggy old clothes with no parents and no money who knew how to take a beating and some day even knew how to give one back. The man he had become, the killer - that was _their_ fault, too. Of course, most of it was his own fault but seriously… it had started back then, when Barney and Clint chose violence over talking to adults. They had been doomed the moment they threw the first punch at each other. Maybe even sooner. Maybe even the moment their dad threw the first punch at them or at their mother, making them watch.

It always came back to your childhood. But that was a lousy excuse. For him as much as for Bruce. Or Robert. Or… whatever. At this point, Clint wasn’t even sure they were two separate people any more. Maybe it was some sort of split personality thing. Gollum and Sméagol-style. Maybe it was just one crazy ass bastard. Either way, he wouldn’t let this one go. Not for himself, but for his _family_. Natasha. Even the other Avengers. New York City. Because there was a danger and it was his job, his responsibility, to stop it somehow. He was the only one who knew about it. He was the only one who could _do_ something.

His life sucked. SO MUCH.

“You want to have the address of the Asylum Brian Banner is in? I think it might be… helpful for a profile.” She flinched. “I’ve stood in front of that building so many times… I just couldn’t get myself to enter.” - “Actually, that would be extremely helpful. And I guess… according to your story… Banner didn’t have any friends growing up, did he? Someone he was close to? Or a shrink maybe? And…” He handed her a little card, “that’s the address I put down for his uncle’s family. Do you happen to know if they still live there? Do you think they might talk to me?”

“He had a shrink, yes. I knew her. You won’t get much out of her. She said it always made her sad working with him. She spend three years to just get a smile out of him that wasn’t inclined to tell her that he was _fine_. She said he was so convincing that she sometimes went home, thinking that: Yes, he had just forgotten everything and that it _had not been that bad_. Friends… no. He seems to have been close to his cousin. He was waiting outside when she graduated and he seemed… _happy_ when she hugged him. He wasn’t allowed on the school grounds but he waited exactly at the line.” She took one look at the card and nodded sharply. “Yes, his uncle is still living there. He’s the chief of the local police department. I wouldn’t know of any reason to move.” 

Clint smiled at her, thankfully, and stood up. “If you could just write the therapist’s name down here for me, and the address of that asylum.” He waited until she had finished, took his pen and pad back and gave her a formal, but warm handshake. “Thank you so much, Ma’am. I am sure that can’t have been easy and you have been very helpful. If you remember anything else, please, feel free to give me a call.” He handed her one of the fake business cards he’d made at a copyshop three blocks from here. _‘SA D. Thornton. Federal Bureau of Investigation.’_ Complete with seal and everything, they looked very official. They taught you how to falsify stuff like that on the Academy. The phone number he had written on the back of that card belonged to a burner phone he’d bought at the airport. Not traceable. Banner was just too intelligent to leave anything to chance, he had decided. Also he wouldn’t switch his phone back on before he made it back to NYC. By now, Stark had probably put an alert on it and as soon as it went online, JARVIS would freak out and Natasha would rush to the airport and Banner would know. Everyone would know. Well, maybe not Thor and Steve. But Tasha and Stark were smart enough to puzzle this one together. Especially considering that Tony was unnaturally invested in everything concerning Bruce and Natasha had been the one to illegally pull his file for Clint. Yeah, between the two of them, they’d figure him out in about two minutes. He could almost imagine them all sitting together, Steve all oblivious as to why Clint would investigate a fellow teammate without coming to him first or without any apparent reason. Thor wondering if that strange place called L.A. was by any chance close enough to Boston to visit Jane Foster on the way over there. Tony angry at Clint because he didn’t trust Banner and because he hadn’t kept his promise to fix whatever he had done to Bruce and Tasha furious at Clint because he had run off like that without giving her a head’s up and angry at Tony because he dared be angry at Clint for something so stupid and angry at Bruce because all of this lead right back to him.  
And Bruce… Bruce. 

Clint made his way out of the headmistress’s office and felt like he was back in high school again, the troubled kid. It felt like he had spend at least a third of his high school years in some headmaster’s office, being scolded to no end. Not that he had ever minded. At some point, he had just decided to skip this crap altogether. Why go to school if the only training he needed to work at the carnival was acrobatics, sword-fighting, animal handling and his skills with bow and arrow? 

When he came back to the main hall, the bell was ringing and students were flocking into the hallways, chatting and shoving and laughing and roistering. Clint didn’t know why, but he turned back and saw Mrs Meeks standing on the stairs, looking after him. She smiled and he nodded and then he looked up to the school’s motto that was carved into the white, clinical walls. _Mens sana in corpore sano. A sound mind in a sound body._

_Right._ Clint shook his head and proceeded back to his rental car. It was an old Bentley, not exactly fast or pretty, but that was okay. He needed it to move and to keep a low profile. For that, it was just perfect. _So what next, Barton? As long as no one’s figured out where you are, where do you want to go? Asylum? Shrink? The shrink’s a bad call. She won’t talk about her patients with you and won’t tell you much the teacher hasn’t spilled already. Nah, leave the shrink. For now. You can still try her if you come off empty-handed from everywhere else. Family? Family or asylum?_

He just started to drive. He didn’t want to seem suspicious by just sitting in this damn car and staring out the windshield, chewing on his lip. He knew the name of that asylum. He remembered seeing it in the news back at the airport. They had some sort of hostage situation back there.  
That did it. He had no idea if Brian Banner was still alive or if he was still there, but in any case, the family wasn’t going anywhere. Brian Banner might. The entire way, however, Clint thought about that damn school motto. _A sound mind in a sound body._ And he thought about a scrawny little physicist who was also a radiation-poisonous rage-monster and who had gained his trust and broken it and left him shattered and confused.

  
**IV**

Outside the Graham Memorial, LA | October 3, 2013

Jennifer came by every day. Most of them twice. So she knew the cops who were standing guard and she knew the typical crowd. She smiled and winked at Hank, who saw her, rolled his eyes and then came over, taking the Starbuck-mug she offered him.  
“So?”, she asked, looking at the building. Tall and white and _scary_. She didn’t want to know what it looked like on the inside. She never had. But she came now nevertheless, because if something happened, she _needed_ to know.

“So I think you should get this stuff from your dad, young lady. He must be getting all the intel.”  
“Yes, he does, but… I don’t want to talk to him about this. It’s personal.”  
“One of your clients?”  
“You know I can’t say.”  
“No, no I guess you can’t.” The old police officer sighed and groomed his mustache. “Really, I can’t believe you’re a lawyer now. Fully grown and everything.”  
“I am 32 years old, Hank. I have been fully grown and a lawyer for quite some time, you know.”  
“Yeeeees... well. Back to your question, _young lady_ : Nothing new. Pete’s in there and he’s requesting Sombreros.”  
“Sombreros…”  
“They want to have some kind of mexican theme party.” The officer shrugged. “No one’s been hurt, as far as I know. But they’re all… crazed out as it seems. They still are, even after all these days.”  
“But no one escaped?”  
“Not since we are standing here.”  
“Okay. That is... reassuring.” She looked at the white building, cradling her own tea-mug in her hands and looking around. For a moment she saw a guy she didn’t know and then she looked closer and she didn’t know why and then… and then it hit her. That one video, that snippet of Tony Stark after a press conference. Bruce had been there, in the background, and when Mr Stark had passed him back on the street there had been this guy. She was sure of it. She had watched that video a hundred times. She knew that nose. She knew that hair, that posture.

Jennifer bit her lip. She shuffled her feet and didn't know what to do for a moment. Could she… _should_ she… just… just go there? Say hello? Introduce herself? Or did he already know who she was? She didn’t know if he really _knew_ Bruce that well, just that he had stood there beside him, waiting and… well. And now he was here, in front of _that place_ , so...  
Well. A girl had to take her chances.  
Really? That was her plan? She needed a better plan. She really did. She needed… uh, Plan B. Plan A never worked, that was for sure. Perhaps she could… no, that would...  
Oh! He moved!

She was there in an instant, all panic and flying brown hair and she nearly lost her glasses on the way, but then she stood in front of him and smiled and huffed and… had nothing to say.  
“Ahm… tea?” She asked, offering him the mug. “I didn’t drink any yet, so… there are no germs or anything and… yes… hi?” She forced the mug in his hands and then tried really hard to make herself presentable again. She put stray hair behind her ears, pushed the glasses back up where they belonged and just prayed to God that there wasn’t any sugar on her chin from that donut she had had as some kind of lunch.

He seemed to be surprisingly cool with her sudden entrance. At first, he looked a bit baffled, but it was almost creepy how quickly he seemed to be calm again, how scrutinizingly hard and fast he took her in before there was an amused smile that crept on his face, reaching and softening those steel-blue eyes of his. “Thanks.” He said it as if he was used to strange women coming over to him and just pushing their tea mug in his hands. “Excuse me, Miss… but do I know you?” Was he laughing at her? No. But… well. He did look amused. Somehow. Something went on in that head of his. “OH! I am not… I am not trying to make a move, you know, I just… uuuuh... I mean, I didn’t _have_ a date, exactly, in quite some time, but there is this guy in my bank and I am just trying to play it slow and cool, you know, so he will probably be married when I ask him out but at least I would never… at a place like this… well there has been this incident in the morgue, but that wasn’t my fault, rea-” His smile got wider by the second. “Calm down, Miss. It’s okay.” He winked at her and for a moment she thought that he was cute. In a way. Maybe. “Special Agent Thornton, FBI,” he introduced himself and offered her his hand, trying to stop the awkwardness as it seemed.  
“FBI, huh…” She shook his hand and cocked her head. Then she smiled. “Can I see your card, please? You have cards, don’t you and I am sure I’ll just forget to write down your number and I have this thing with collecting cards and-”

He chuckled. “I didn’t even catch your name yet, but sure… why not. Here you go.” He pulled out a wallet and gave her one of his cards. It said _’SA D. Thornton. Federal Bureau of Investigation_ and on the back there was some cell phone number. But the sigil on the front looked pretty real.  
She looked down on the card, then put it high over her head and watched how the sun shone through it. “Local copy shop?”, she asked and laughed. “I am sorry, but the FBI-guys are reeeeeeally into this special paper, I think they have a shrine for it or something and - uh, I am sorry. It’s a nice card. Really authentic. Believable. Absolutely. Ahm... That was mean. I am sorry.”

He had an amazing poker face. Even when she saw right through him, he kept it calm, only the fact that he took in the bystanders from the corners of his eyes suggested that he was having second thoughts about standing here and talking to her. And then he just - froze. When she said the last two sentences, something in his face changed and he just lost the calmth that had been all about him ever since Jen ran into him, as if she’d punched him. “You…” He frowned. He got paler. And then, suddenly, there was some sort of epiphany. She could almost see the light bulb glowing up over his head. “You’re… you’re the cousin. Aren’t you?”

“Well… I suppose there are a lot of cousins of a lot of people. I am not THE cousin if that is some kind of title or mafia-rank. Well, they probably have a name for me but I always thought it would not be The Cousin and I am also not some kind of musician and - ahm… but I think based on the fact that I wanted to talk with you because… well… yeah. I am _that_ cousin, I suppose. Hi.” She waved her hand and then shook his again. “I am Jennifer. Jennifer Walters. People call me Jen most of the time. Well… not in court, that would be just… well… I don’t think it would be really appropriate, you know? But I think you are no lawyer, even though you are no FBI-Agent either, so I think Jen would be ok and, yes, so, HOW IS BRUCE?” She blurted the last part out and then slapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, I am sorry, that was… sorry.”

While she was talking, she could see him shifting in his stance. He didn’t like being here, with her, for some reason, and she had a strong feeling it wasn’t because of the location - the asylum hadn’t bothered him before - or because she was Bruce’s cousin, which he seemed to accept pretty quickly, it was more as if he was uncomfortable being around _her_ , specifically. As if she might bite him at any given moment. She had only done that ONCE. In SELF-DEFENCE! And it had been her dentist, so, well, it had been kind of a compliment for his work. He took her hand, hesitatingly, and she could see that there was a fight within him. Then, he just didn’t give her his name. Or his actual job. Instead, he just said: “Bruce is fine, I guess. At least he was two days ago.”  
She smiled then, looked down, put her glasses straight and huffed. “That is… good then. Ahm… do you have to hold my hand? No offence, but you’re pretty young and people are looking and they all know my dad and they will think I am… I don’t know… a cougar before my time…”

He let her go as if he’d burnt himself. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” He seemed to be adamant on not saying any more than he really, honestly had to. Maybe because she was talking so much, maybe because he still hadn’t figured out if he could… what? Trust her? Get her number? He didn’t seem to be checking her out, not any more, anyhow. And he didn’t smile at her joke although he seemed like the kind of guy who could appreciate a good laugh. Strange. She knew she wasn’t that much to look at to begin with. All mousy and timid and… well. Not her concern right now. She had the account-guy at the bank. Really. In… two or three years tops, there would be hand-holding. Perhaps she should take this guy’s hand back. Trying to keep what she could get. “Ahm… you want to go somewhere else? I am not opposed to handholding per se, it’s just that everyone will laugh at me and that’s really not… well… ok, everyone is doing that already until someone threatens me again and then they will all be just… difficult. Okay, so, uhm… you-” - “You’re an awful lot like your cousin,” the stranger interrupted her babbling at some point. A statement, not a question. It sounded a little bit resigned, actually.

“Thanks? … that was a compliment, right? I mean… Bruce is… well, you seem to know him. Which is good. I’d like to hear about that. Handholding possible. You like milkshakes?”

Again, he looked as if she’d slapped him. A bit like a kicked puppy. “Ehm… thanks. I’m… fine.” He offered her her cup back. “I don’t exactly… drink tea, you know.” She took the cup back. Their hands touched for a second and she could feel that he was trembling, not visibly, but there was a tremor there. She was sure. “I can see that. But you have to drink something. Unless you are somehow altered. Genetically. Or an alien. That one guy of the Avengers is an alien, right? I’m not a racist, you can tell me, we can… I don’t know… take a sunbath if that is what you do to socialise.”

“Thor’s… yeah, technically he’s an alien. That most people refer to as a god.” Wow. It was really hard to get more than a few words out of this guy, as if he’d made a vow of silence or something! “I’m… gonna get a coffee. Or something.” Well, at least he was part of some species that enjoyed coffein. That was a start, right?

“There’s a nice place around the corner. Used to belong to the Mafia till… well. The owner likes me and they do have a mean Caramell-Bomber. I mean… like… that thing can keep you on sugar endorphins for a hundred years and… I am sorry, but… do I upset you somehow?” He shook his head, calmly again, and she started to believe that he was somehow retarded or really, really shy because seriously, he didn’t like to talk. “Sorry. No. I’m… it’s just… You’re… it’s like you’re _him_. Down to the shuffling of your feet and the cleaning of your glasses and the milkshakes…” He shook his head. “Freaks me out a little bit.” - “Does it make things better for you when I tell you that I have _exactly_ average IQ - and you can’t believe how often my parents had me tested, it was crazy - and that Bruce got me addicted to milkshakes when he introduced me to Betty and didn’t know where else to go and that I don’t really need glasses?”

He shook his head, but at least there was that strange little smile again, nice in a way that she immediately felt she’d like him if he’d only let her, but also sort of… sad. “No, I’ll just have to adapt. I’m pretty good at adapting… so no worries.” - “You’re like him, too. But he gave that shit up with me when he was like… twelve. Well, he DID do it again, but he never believed I would buy it.” - “What… do you mean?” He seemed to absolutely confused now.

She sighed, shuffled her feet - stopped that when she remembered what he had said, wanted to rearrange her glasses, stopped that too and then just huffed and played with her skirt. Bruce couldn’t be doing _that_ now, could he? And it worked. He watched that little show she put on, starting motions and interrupting them, and he _laughed_. He actually laughed. And he looked even younger now, less vulnerable but still more like a kid than an adult, she thought. She had the urge to muss up his hair and didn’t because… well. You couldn’t just muss up people’s hair if you only just met them, right?

“Well… aren’t you perfectly adorable when you’re laughing.” And then she shrugged and hid her hands behind her back, because… she _really_ wanted to muss up his hair. And then she smiled and sighed and put her glasses back on her nose, very very orderly. “So… ahm… we are not getting anywhere this way, so… yeah. Just follow me and if I start singing or something else equally embarrassing, just… pretend I don’t do it. And if I start to look like Bruce, I will have a deep emotional trauma, ‘cause he might be cute and everything, but no girl wants to be a thirty.seven-year-old man. UNLESS you are on a date with a vet and it is going totally FINE and you think you have found the love of your life until he starts telling you about Kurt and you need three hours to realise that Kurt is in fact no dog, but well… alright, see, that is one of these stories you HAVE to ignore! And just tell Bruce if you think he will laugh.”

He just kept on walking beside her, allowing her to go on and on and it seemed as if he was listening carefully to every little detail of what she was saying, watching her and his surroundings and… flinching when she mentioned Bruce, although he seemed to regret that only a moment later. She thought back to that video tape she’d seen. He and Bruce had been standing right next to each other, close enough for their shoulders to touch. He hadn’t exactly seemed to be frightened back then. But he was now. He tried to hide it, but he clearly was crap at that. She became silent and hummed thoughtfully until they were in the shop and she ordered a tall Chai-Latte for herself. And then she cocked her head and just looked at the guy. He asked for some coffee, black, no sugar and paid both drinks without as much as giving her a chance to do so. Wasn’t he a gentleman? A gentleman who was afraid of… Bruce… or probably that green, angry version of him or… or. Well. Wasn’t that an interesting thought? He seemed to feel her eyes on him, she could see his back straightening up a little more. It was then that it hit her, how tense his shoulders had looked the entire time they’d talked. Not exactly as if he was uncomfortable around her - which he clearly was, by the way - but because he was used to moving that way. Very much aware of his body. Maybe he was some sort of fitness nut or something. Or… FBI hadn’t been so far away from the truth. Well. Bruce and Mr Stark belonged to this team of super-heroes (which was AWESOME by the way, she really hoped that Mr Stark was nice to Bruce, he seemed a little bit… well like a dick) and Mr Not-Thornton here had been there. With them. Her guess was military. Special Ops, probably. Which was amazing for a guy that age. 

Jennifer took her glasses off and put them on the table. “So… I am sorry, but you don’t seem to be the chatty type and I think best while talking. I’ll just do this thing, like I do it with… difficult clients. So I’ll just talk and you can nod or shake your head or just start screaming at me at some point, alright? Just… just don’t strangle me.” She seized these _arms_ and shuddered. “No offense, but that has happened way too often and here is no one to stop you, so I would appreciate it if I could skip that scenario.” He looked at her and he seemed to be a bit amused, but then he just… nodded. Not a word. That guy was strange. Repressed, maybe. Or overly shy. But he hadn’t looked that shy earlier, before he’d known who she was. A mystery, then.

“Alright. So. What do I know? I know that you know Bruce. You know him very well, you probably had a chat or two with him and you might have found some similarities.” He nodded at the first part, then cocked his head slightly at the second part as if he was inclined to say something. Then he actually opened his mouth. “Not… not that many, actually. We’re… pretty different. He’s a genius and… other things and well… I’m… not.”  
“He is male, I am female. He is a genius and I am not. These other things he might be I am not but you said that he and I are alike, so I don’t see your point.” He sighed. “It’s… I don’t know. Family resemblance maybe. The way you guys talk and what you like and how you move, it’s just… like you’re another version of him. I guess. I mean I can see you guys must’ve been pretty close before he just… vanished.” Suddenly, it looked as if he’d had a thought. “Don’t suppose it was your birthday these last few days, was it?”

“Betty’s. Elizabeth Ross. His… well, his girlfriend until he… you say vanished but Betty’s father told us that he was dead.” He nodded slowly, as if that gave sense to something he’d been thinking about, a problem perhaps. “Must’ve been…” he stopped, then continued, “... hell.” - “ _No, I’ll just have to adapt. I’m pretty good at adapting… so no worries._ ” She flinched. “I can’t even make it sound real when I am just copying one of you. Seriously. How someone can keep a straight face through this… Yes, YES it has been… bad. Really bad. I didn’t talk for six months and my shrink was my only friend for… uh, I don’t know how long.”

“I’m sorry.” He said it like he meant it. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories… I just thought that maybe… you might be thinking about visiting him sometime. Now that he’s… not… dead. You know. I mean, I get it if you’re angry at him or anything, but if I had a family member who… well. None of my business really. Sorry.”

“Well, I don’t know if it isn’t your business.” She cocked her head. “I mean… you are a curious one. And well. You might know Bruce now. I guess if he isn’t… sending cards or something, then that has to mean something. I know he loves me, so no worries there but he probably is trying to protect us and I won’t interfere with that. It’s a crappy thing to do. So. What happened? Between you two?”

He stiffened so fast that she thought he’d actually attack her or jump to the ceiling or do anything absolutely crazy. It was as if his entire body was some sort of spring ready to bounce. And there was hurt… there was hurt in his eyes that he couldn’t hide for several seconds before he finally managed to pull himself together. “Nothing. Not a damn thing.” So finite. So clear. If she hadn’t seen his reaction beforehand, she might have believed him. But as it was… that meant the exact opposite. She stood up and went around the corner. “Gimme some space.” She pushed him over and it was okay, because really: That was no guy she had to….well it was not someone. He was some kind of substitute-Bruce at the moment and she would treat him as one. So she sat down beside him and put her arms around him. “Bruce has probably told you a different thing, but: You’re a pretty good liar. That’s a sad thing to be.”

He shrugged her off and retreated to the wall and there was that tremor again when she touched him, that trembling as if he was expecting to get hurt. He bit his lower lip. “Yeah. Well. Saved my life a few times so no one’s complaining. Except for… the people I lied to.”

“I’m just saying. You’re good at saying you’re okay. Like Bruce. I am not. And I have to tell you, that I am not ok with you shivering like that and I don’t know if I am making this any worse. I am just saying that hugs are a good thing and you could break me like a twig so… gimme a hug? Please?” He had that look again. Haunted. Tormented. And he pressed his back against the wall and he looked like a beat up little kid and he pleaded at her with his eyes. “Please… just… I can’t. No… touching.” He didn’t look like the kind of guy who’d be scared of physical contact. But he was. And she couldn’t understand why. 

“Well… it’s a good thing you’re saying that. Better than letting things happen and just endure the whole time. So alright, we’ll leave it this way: I am going back to my seat and if you change your mind or just want to hold a hand or something, I am there and I won’t talk about it. I swear.” 

“You’re… really just like him. You get under people’s skin.” He wiped over his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, typical move for ‘strong’ and ‘independant’ men to ‘not’ cry. She knew. She’d seen it all in her job. “I’m feeling like the bully here, but I guess that’s still not it. And I am having a hunch here, but… you seem like you had a pretty rough week. Or year.” - “Just… let it go, okay?” He pulled his coffee closer and held the mug with both hands, as if holding onto it for dear life. “I promise you, nothing happened between me and _Bruce_.” Maybe he wasn’t as good a liar as he thought because there was something in the way he said the name, some little intonation, that was just… _off_.

Jennifer sighed. Well. Her hunch was getting bigger. She had had that feeling from… well not right the beginning, but there had been a point. No one got that worked up over Bruce, as harsh as that sounded. “Yeah, well. Do I have to talk with Robert then?”

He had to be part chameleon because it was just not possible for humans to change their skin colour this rapidly, or it should not have been, and yet he did, switching from a normal pinkish complexion to some sort of milky grey, eyes wide and hands shaking so hard that he had to put his cup down without drinking from it. Some of the coffee spilled over his hands but he didn’t even seem to notice, he was staring at her as if she were a ghost and his eyes were betraying him, telling her all she needed to see, telling her that he was hurting as hell. And by that, she had her answer.

She shook her hand and took a sip of her chai. “I had thought him gone, but well. I suppose he just took a really long vacation and came back when needed. So. Is that the reason you’re here? Because I can tell you: Going inside that asylum and talking with...” It was hard to make her lips form the words. Her father had forced her to say it, again and again and again, like he had forced Bruce to visit, because you should never be afraid of the truth and because no ghosts should rule your life. “... my _uncle_... It will not help any dispute with Robert. And normally… well. I know he may seem scary sometimes, but that is his job after all. At least he called it his job when we three were kids, I don’t know if he has another word for it now. But yes. A talk with uncle Brian. Not a good idea. No matter what the cause, that’s… You still like Bruce, I guess, even though you’re not that big a fan of Robert’s. So I’m saying it like that: Talk with my uncle and you will never be able to talk with Bruce again. It is that simple. It’s the only reason why I haven’t been in there and ripped that guy’s heart out to dance on it until it was just a puddle of evilness on the floor.”

“So… they’re actually two people, Robert and Bruce?” The stranger’s voice was shaking, but he was pulling himself together by the minute. As if he was used to people traumatizing him. Or at least getting there. “And Bruce… doesn’t know what Robert… does, right?” She sometimes forgot that it wasn’t… normal for other people that there were two guys in the same person. She had grown up with that and she had also grown up with it being a secret. Jennifer remembered this time quite fondly. It was good to know that Robert was there, with Bruce, that he was still looking after him. But she got the feeling that this guy did not approve of something that Robert had done. 

“Why are you not talking with Bruce about that? I mean… you’re his friend.”

“No.” The word came forcefully. “I can’t… ever… I just can’t do that to him. I can’t. He would stand there and freaking apologize and I would feel like…” He rubbed his hands over his face. “No. You’re right, we’re… friends. Sort of. More than _sort_ of, we’re… I like him. But what that monster… what he _did_...” He shuddered. “It would break Bruce. I just know it would… it would destroy everything. And he’d run again and… I…” - “DON’T!” She slammed her cup on the table, when she heard that _word_ and she had this anger, she wanted to scream at him for being… she realised that she was sitting on the table, her hand stretched as if she wanted to slap him and she huffed and pulled back and played with her glasses because really, there was not much left to do. 

The man flinched back, but suddenly, there was darkness in his eyes, rage and hurt becoming something more, something stronger, the will to fight back, the will to not be broken like he seemingly was, to not be robbed of whatever it was Robert had taken from him. He clenched his teeth and his hands were fists and his voice was a whisper so silent she almost didn’t hear it except it was sharp and forced and angry enough that she did. “Don’t you dare defend him. Don’t you _dare_. You have NO idea how he is. NONE. There is no… excuse.” She was scared of him, right then and there because he was taller than her and stronger and so angry, so full of hate and then, suddenly, with the last word, it all fell apart and he just leaned forward, one of his hands before his eyes, and she heard that sob. He was crying pathetically. He was broken.

But…. But. She fidgeted on her chair and then put a hand on his head. She didn’t pet him, not really, she just put her hand there so he knew that someone was there. And for the first time since she’d introduced herself, he didn’t flinch away, maybe because he didn’t even realize what she was doing. She was sensible enough to not ask him what Robert had done. She had the feeling that she didn’t want to know. Jennifer just stayed there for a moment, leaving her hand on the guy’s head. She didn’t know his name yet. On the card it had been D., but she didn’t believe that. 

“Uncle Brian called him monster.”; she said and she just started to say that because she had the feeling that this guy really needed to know a thing or two about Robert and Bruce or he might end up hurting them. “Even before. He called him a monster since he could remember. Before everything. Then his mum… My father took him to visit uncle Brian every year and in the beginning he stayed there with him. He didn’t notice that it wasn’t Bruce sitting there. Can’t imagine how he missed that, really, they are so… well, must be like with twins. Thing is that word…” 

“It’s in their eyes.” The man sniffed and rubbed his face and looked absolutely embarrassed when he pulled away from her hand. “And in their skin. Robert is… cold.” He shuddered involuntarily. “Cold and hard and…”, he shook his head. “Bruce is nice and he can be funny and… well. He’s Bruce and Robert’s just…” She could see how his breathing quickened and then he stopped looking for new words and gave her one more difference, “... he takes what he wants and it doesn’t matter if other people… if anyone gets hurt.” - “That’s just not true.” She massaged her temple and searched for words for a moment. She remembered Robert and it was hard to see him through the eyes of someone who … well hadn’t known him as a child or just as something that _needed_ to be there. There would have been no Bruce without Robert. Robert had not been cold when they had been kids, but well. This radiation-thing made Bruce gigantic and green, so it could probably make Robert cold. “He cared for Bruce. He cared for me and my parents. When Betty was there I asked him once. Because I was curious. I asked him if he was ok with that and he said that he just wanted Bruce to be happy and content and… okay. He did only come out to talk because I asked him. Until then he was safe and sound inside and… oh, you will not understand if you have just seen him on one of his… _missions_. They said there was no excuse for the thing at school, too. Do you know about that?”

The man closed his eyes when she said the bit about _‘caring’_ and she had the feeling that she was getting closer without really knowing what it all meant, but she just knew whatever had happened was tightly knit to Robert’s job. It took a while for the stranger to answer her question, but she knew by then that he wasn’t exactly quick when it came to talking and she waited until he nodded. “I was there… I talked to the headmistress.”

“Oh yes, I remember _her._ ” She hadn’t done anything. She had been there, back then and she hadn’t done _anything_. They had all said that they cared, that they would look after Bruce, but they hadn’t DONE it. 

“I think I get what you’re trying to tell me, I just…” He gulped. “I see how blowing the school up or taking over when Bruce was forced to visit his father or other stuff might be a ‘mission’ but what he did t- _with_ me, that just wasn’t… I didn’t… I don’t know…”

And then she got it. She looked at the love bite on his neck and she got it and the first thing she thought was: What have you DONE to him? And then… then she was ashamed, because that wasn’t something that Robert would _do_ , not for this kind of reasons. She bit her lip and then she said - just because he wanted him to _understand_ : “He is… healing I suppose. Now. With the green stuff going on. Are old wounds… are they still visible?”

He looked at her and something died in his eyes and she realized that he had realized he’d _told_ her and he looked mortified and broken and as if he was considering to just take out a gun and put it in his mouth. “Please,” she said and looked at him and shuddered, because she knew that gaze, that look and she had so hoped to never see it again. “Please, just… let’s talk about the bomb. I think… that maybe that is… you wanted to understand. And it is way back. Safe. So. He had a scar once. Bruce. Nasty, red thing on his abdomen.” 

He nodded. He just nodded and she knew that it was both, an acknowledgment that she’d guessed right and the answer to her question if it was still there. “I suppose the headmistress told you that there had been bullying. Before the bomb. She probably even told you, that it was… alcohol. I don’t know what you know about that, but Bruce… he doesn’t drink. ”

“That’s one of the few things we actually have… in common,” he admitted. “I do drink but not… I never get drunk. I just…” He shrugged. “Life sucks.” He said it exactly like he’d told her that he was _fine_ before, with the same voice, that voice that swore he’d gotten over all that and he was still alive and he didn’t want to talk about it because that wouldn’t change anything and yeah, he was _fine_ with it, just so fucking PEACHY.

Jen leaned over and slapped the back of his head. “Don’t.” She said it again and she hoped that he would finally listen to her so she would not have to hear it and fight the wish to hug him. Hard. “Well, figures. But for Bruce it always had to be the extremes. When they did this to him, he would come home and vomit. He forced himself to puke until there was only blood left that would come out and he forbid me to tell my parents. Because it was _fine_ , not half as bad.as what he’d been through.” She gave the guy a smile that should say: ‘So yeah… don’t give me that shit’. “And it was. Just another ordeal for Bruce Banner. And then they made him drink Gin.”

She shuddered. It went through her entire body. “I really don’t know how they could go through with it. He must have kicked and screamed like they were trying to slaughter him. He had…” She crunched her head and looked away but she _wanted_ to tell it to somebody, she _needed_ to. “He had … dirtied himself. I don’t mean just wet himself, I mean he would have let his liver out, if he could have. Gin was… what his father drank the day, he… well. So. I went by and I ran there and saw them. The guys ran away. They left two empty bottles on the street. You wanna know what my sweet, lovable, quiet cousin did when they let him finally go?” She looked at him, she looked him in the eyes and she could still feel that _hate_ that was there, boiling underneath. 

For once, it didn’t seem too bad that the blond man didn’t talk much. He proved to be a good listener, never mind his own problems. He just sat there and looked at her without staring, sometimes he’d just look at the mug in his hands, but he was with her and he seemed genuinely interested, not just prying for information but trying to understand her point of view. He was a strange guy. Hurt. Broken even. But there was something about him that was just… nice. It got to you without him even trying, just by listening to you and tolerating your point of view. As if he could heal a little part of you by just listening to you, taking in your pain and accepting it and understanding you. He didn’t answer, he just looked at her, gave her time to find the right words. Waiting. He seemed to be good at that even if he hadn’t struck her as especially patient before and she knew that seemed to be arbitrary but with him, it worked.

For once that patience wrang her out. She didn’t want to say it. She wanted it out there, in the open, she wanted for him to know and to see and to understand, but she didn’t want to say the words. Because the words made it real again. The words brought back that hot day in June, the lonely alleyway, her skirt fluttering in the wind and Bruce telling her to just go, he was _fine_. “He didn’t even hesitate. They must have seen it from afar. They must have heard me scream. Bruce… Bruce took one of the bottles, smashed it and then he cut his belly open _just to get it out._ ” She looked at him, at this stranger, that now really was no stranger any more and whose name she still did not know. “He smiled at me and his lips were bloody and he said: It is _fine_. I will be _fine_. I’ll just get it out.”

“I am scared of needles.” He started flat, calmly and it sounded so mundane, so stupid after what she had just told him, but he repeated it and by that, the words suddenly gained a lot more weight than those of a person just talking of a silly phobia. “I am _scared_ of needles. Doesn’t matter why. Just… Bruce is my friend. And he knows. He was… away. For a little while. And I got sick while he was not with us. I couldn’t keep anything in, I just… it all came right back out and it tasted like crap so I just stopped to eat altogether whenever the others weren’t looking. And when he came back we planned a little movie night to celebrate, you know, but I didn’t even make it through the news, I just… I must’ve dropped. And he got me to my room and he gave me something, some drug, something to drink because he knows I don’t like hospitals and I hate needles… and then he took care of me. He stayed the night and that was… nice. I’m not used to people doing that. Caring. You know.” He closed his eyes and then he just looked at his cup and told everything else to the little rest of coffee he had in front of him, with a husked little voice, so quietly that it just got to Jen and no one else could possibly understand what he was saying. 

“He warned me there might be side effects. Headaches and being… well… stoned the next day. We even made jokes about ‘t. And he was right ‘cause I woke up the middle of the night and I was all dizzy and I couldn’t even move properly, and I felt… weak. And then I realized that he was lying there in the same bed as me, his arms all tightened around me, but it wasn’t Bruce, it was Robert… and…” He pressed his lips together. “And he… _cared_ for me, if you really want to use that word for him.” His face turned dark. “I fought him… well... I tried. I couldn’t even speak. I couldn’t… And afterwards he just… cleaned me up and promised me it would be okay and just a dream when I woke up and I would forget it but I couldn’t… I can’t. I close my eyes and he’s there. And he’s calling me names and he’s…” He looked as though he might throw up and shook his head. “I am used to being in control. I am. I have to be. But that night I just… he took it. He took it and he _liked_ it and afterwards he crawled back in with me and when we woke up he was Bruce… and he didn’t even…”

He shuddered. “He doesn’t know. He can never… _know._ So that’s what your sweet, innocent cousin… did with me. He _helped_ me, and I trusted him although I don’t trust... people… ever... and then he used that same _help_ and just...” It was clearly a sarcastic statement, but it only sounded bitter. Bitter and broken.

“I never said innocent. Bruce isn’t innocent. Robert is… _pure_.” She needed a word for it and that was as good as any. She wasn’t good with silences and she wasn’t really in a stable emotional state right now. She could see date-night becoming shrink-night again. Well. Bernie and she went way back. Jennifer looked at this man and she felt sorry for the fact that this had happened to him, that he was so shaken with it, but… but it was Robert. And Robert was not evil, she knew that. “This might… oh well, so here is what I am thinking. I don’t know if… if that will make it better or worse for you. I think Bruce took care of you when you were ill. He is probably really good at that. He was, when we were small. But Bruce isn’t good with… physical affection. No one notices normally, but…. it takes about ten hugs from the same person before he believes that he isn’t going to be beaten. That has maybe changed over time, I don’t know. But… I think he may have been kinda happy. It seems like a big deal that he turns green and he was away for ten years. It sounds like there haven’t been so many friends and I have to repeat it: You two are so alike. You and Bruce. And… I think sleeping in one bed and everything… I don’t know. Bruce has never been into men, not that I knew of, but… but. And Robert… I’m going with my feeling here, that it was… Robert who didn’t… he doesn’t know, I think. I think he knows you feel better afterwards and probably sleepy and I think there was a feeling of touching and he went with it, because it was what Bruce wanted and didn’t do and… and I must ask this now very carefully because I know, that it isn’t… that that might not make a great difference to you but it might be to him: Has this whole thing been about making you feel something or about him? Did he hurt you in any physical way? Shall I…” she put her hands over her eyes. ”... shall I talk with him?”

He looked at her while she was talking, looked and looked and she could just see him hold it together with any strength he could muster, but she could see him crumble underneath, piece by piece of his last armour, his hate and his anger, falling down and there was nothing left underneath it. Just… emptiness. Then he smiled at her, that smile she hated so much because she saw right through it and it wasn’t even a good one this time, it was just fake and hurt. “Thank you,” he said softly like he’d speak to a wounded child, “for telling me all this. I’m sorry.” - “Talk to Bruce.”, she said. It was a last resort, but this… this was… “Robert can’t do anything if Bruce forbids him. It’s the whole reason uncle Brian is still alive. Because Bruce…”  
She wanted to say ‘forgives him’ or something like that, but it would not have been true. The truth was that Bruce still loved his father and somehow hoped that… she didn’t know . He couldn’t want him for anything, but all the hate for everything he had done was Robert. There was nothing left.

“I’m sorry.” The blond man repeated, flatly. “I won’t. I can’t and if you like your cousin at all you won’t do this to him, either. He’s a good… he’s kind. And he has a home now. He’s been running and running and he’s finally stopped. He’s got friends. I can’t… I can take Robert. If he tries again, I can take him. I’m usually not that… weak. Sorry I burdened you with this.” He really did sound sorry and so soft now, so extremely carefully as if _she_ was the traumatized one, as if he was trying to soothe her in any way possible. “I’m fine,” he said and he smiled and she wanted to slap him again because he had said it almost mockingly.

And then he just stood up and left. Stood up and left her sitting there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:**  
> 
> There's nothing graphical in here, but a lot of people talk and think about violence having taken place including mobbing, forced drugging and self-inflicted injuries, all of which are involving kids; and the non-con from last chapter. We're playing a lot with the trigger-theme in this one, so basically there's a bunch of traumatized people, all of them important supporting or even main characters, doing their best to make things worse for each other. All in the best intentions, of course.
> 
> * * *
> 
> So, no one said something about Clint cuddling and more with Bruce's better half. We take it that you ship Robert/Clint. Robert does too. And Jen. Hm. Maybe Clint is the only one not okay with it.


	16. 15. Cupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's serious shipping going on and Bruce has to recognize something he would really prefer to be completely oblivious about. Thank you, Natasha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:**  
>  Contains the Russian Inquisition, JARVIS more flawed than he's been throughout this entire story so far, FaceBook-jokes and overall the proof why the Avengers do (not) make such a great team.

  
** 15\. Cupid **

_You better, please,_  
 _Hear my cry_  
 _And let your arrow fly_  
 _Straight to my lover's heart_  
 _For me._

_I don't want to bother you_  
 _But I'm in distress_  
 _I’m in danger of losing_  
 _All my happiness_  
 _Oh, I love a man_  
 _Who doesn't know I exist_

 

Stark Tower | October 1, 2013

The day Clint had left New York hadn’t been much fun for anyone. Well, actually, it didn’t start out that bad, for Bruce, that was. Sure, Clint was a mess, but… well… some scenes of everyday life within the Stark Tower were just too rewarding to pass on just because someone was sick and sad. Like Thor and Cap trying to understand the concept of FaceBook. They had been at this task for weeks and they were doing a fantastic job, considering neither of them had actually ever used a computer before they moved in with rest of the team. Their accounts were all set (thanks to Darcy, who had “helped” them to do so, meaning she had done all the work and explaining and the two blonds had looked at her desperately and then praised her and told her she was the best and yes, yes of course they understood now!) and the two “Oldtimer Avengers” were usually, on most days, extremely proud how well they seemed to be adapting to modern Earth life. Of course there were exceptions. Mainly because modern life was hilarious and Steve and Thor both were so eager to adapt that they couldn’t see the fun of it.

“So… if I send the Lady Jane imaginary livestock it is a good thing, yes?”  
“Yes. I think so. I have this paper on face-book-etiquette.” Although he was slowly getting quite confident around computers, Steve sounded stressed and unhappy today. He was sitting at a PC, Thor standing behind him and they were trying really hard to make this work.

Bruce was lying on the couch, his StarkPad in his hands, typing and swooshing and half-heartedly listening to an acoustic album of 10.000 Maniacs. He liked the soothing voice of Natalie Merchant. He just could never tell Tony or the man would get her here to sing for them.  
“You sure you don't want my help?”, he asked from the couch, not really looking up.  
Steve frowned at him. “No. No, thank you Dr Banner, but… I don't think your FaceBook-experience is that much better than ours. And we will be able to do the right clicks, no worries.”  
Bruce shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He made that swooshing with his fingers again. “I am here, if you need me.”  
“Thank you, we really appreciate that, but -”  
“Man of stars? Why doth it say here that thou are in a committed relationship with me?”  
“WHAT??? Ahm… I don’t....”  
“And should we be sending Agent Thornton livestock? I thought that was for the Ladies Jane and Darcy? I want to show THEM I can guarantee food and shelter, even in the magic realms of the book of faces, but...”  
“I really don't know, what…”

Bruce hummed and swooshed on his tablet, typed and then just looked at the results. This was really comfortable.

“There is a message from the Lady Darcy!”  
“Yes! Yes, there is, I can just.... click… and…”  
There was silence for a moment.  
“Doth the Lady Darcy want to challenge us to a quest? A noble journey over the oceans to find a beast and slay it?”  
“I... I don’t think so.”  
“Then I do not understand. Hath she typed incorrectly? What could ‘I ship the Norse Shield, no hard feelings, want photos’ mean?”

Bruce smiled to himself and was silent for the moment, swooshing and typing and then loading Photoshop.

“... good Doctor?”  
“Yes, Thor?”  
“What doth shipping mean?”  
“Well, it means that she approves of the relationship. RelationSHIP, you see? I suppose 'Norse Shield' would be a nickname for the two of you. I congratulate, by the way, it is nice that you two will be first in line for being publically gay superheroes. It will do a lot for the community.” He said it very calmly and then smiled at them serenely, scratching his neck.

“But… Dr Banner, I can assure you I am not -”  
“... Man of Stars?”  
“Yes?”  
“... I am deeply sorry, but it seemeth that thou hast a rogue magician who conjured a painting of us. Or did we really do what the book of faces showeth there?”

Steve couldn’t say anything for a moment. He just stared at the screen, at the picture and then he tried to delete it and then he blushed and tried to delete it some more and then he hissed a word: “ _Stark..._ ”  
Bruce smiled, not put out in the slightest. He _did_ flinch when he heard Natasha's voice, suddenly very close to his ear. “You really are a mean one, aren’t you?”  
He looked at her a bit sheepishly, threw a look over to Thor and Steve and then closed photoshop. “Well…”, he whispered back and winked at her. “I have been told that the pretty girls only fall for the bad boys.”

She seemed to be amused, as far as he could tell by the glint in her dashing green eyes. And she didn’t raid him out to the taller, blond men at the PC. “Speaking of pretty girls, has anyone seen Clint? He’s not in his room…”

“He missed the morning rapport.” Steve looked very put out by that and Thor frowned.  
“Morning rapport… I thought thou solely hadst to do that if thou were running a kingdom of speaking and singing beasts?”  
Steve looked at him. It was _visable_ how hard he was trying to make sense out of that statement. Then he gave up. His shoulders slouched and he sighed and looked at the outraging picture of… two men with his and Thor’s faces and you could see him thinking about the possibility to just start crying. “It’s not unusual behaviour for him. I thought he was ill, watching some TV?”

“Yeah, well, he’s not and his stuff is gone.” Natasha crossed her arms. If she was amused by Thor’s statement, she didn’t actually show it. But then again, she made a point of showing as little emotion as possible most of the time. Cold-blooded russian killer, at least that was the identity she had created for herself, the one she was hiding behind. “Please tell me he didn’t switch rooms again because he didn’t like the view or the ceiling had too few air vents or he’d rather have afternoon sun than decent light in the morning?”

Bruce bit his lip. He thought about how Clint had looked that morning, how he had just _reeked_ of desperation. It was plausible that he had changed rooms. There might have been something… The dream had really gotten to him, or whatever it had been. It was not unnatural that he would change sleeping accommodations after that.  
Steve rubbed his head and looked at Natasha, now a little bit worried and for the moment not concentrating on the picture or on Thor who was declaring that _‘this was no possible posture of the body of an Asgardian and if humans might have had vipers under their ancestors?’_ “I really can’t tell. But after the last time… Tony gave him the whole tour, didn’t he? I thought there had been a solution. I can’t put up with not knowing where to find him. It makes exit-strategies a lot more unpredictable.”

Natasha sighed. “Well, that does just sound like something he’d enjoy. JARVIS, can you notify us of the exact location of Agent Barton?” - _“I am sorry, Agent Romanov. I cannot. He is currently eluding my surveillance.”_

“WHAT???” Bruce stared at the ceiling, dumbfounded for the moment and shocked. “You can not… you mean to tell me that you let him go out in his current state of being and you didn’t inform me immediately? He is not FIT to run around, you know how he was this morning, he -” And then he snapped his mouth shut, because that was nothing he wanted to spill. 

_“I am sorry, I must object, Dr Banner. To the contrary, Agent Barton seemed to be quite fit for travel and very much determined in his actions. As you requested, I monitored his blood pressure and heart rate and neither was diverging from the norm.”_ \- “What did he do?” Natasha frowned at the ceiling. _“After Dr Banner had left him, Agent Barton took a shower, put fresh sheets on his bed and packed two bags. He then informed Sir of his travel plans and Sir did not try to stop him. Also, according to my security servers, Agent Barton has unlimited access to the entire Tower except for Sir’s laboratory. He is free to come and go as he pleases and I cannot find any log that would implicate the need to treat him as a prisoner.”_

Bruce tried not to snap. He tried really, really hard. He closed his eyes and he counted downwards starting at ten and then he let his breath go out and and he was calm again. Scared for Clint, but calm and no longer in the mood to go rampage on an AI. “JARVIS… I am the doctor here. And I would really appreciate it if you could start to take into consideration that I actually know what I am doing and that… Oh well. No way out of this now. Can you phone him, JARVIS?”

“No, Dr Banner. As I told you, he is currently eluding my surveillance. He has turned off all technological devices that would allow me to monitor his movements.” Natasha hissed. She was clearly angry now. “What the hell? He just went dark without telling ANYONE? Get Stark up here. Right now. Tell him it’s an emergency.” Her eyes were glimmering portentous. And then she turned towards Bruce like a cat, slightly ducked and ready to attack. “What exactly happened this morning?!”

Bruce shuffled his feet and rearranged his glasses. He stood up from the couch and put his hands in front of him, defensively. Steve stood by his side the next minute, glaring at her. “Agent Romanov, I understand that you are upset, but that is no reason to snap at Dr Banner or to threaten him. You understand that?” Good, old Steve. Bruce would hide behind his back until he could figure out what HAD happened. He couldn’t quite say, either, but Clint being gone… that meant he had missed something. Thor had also stepped closer to his disputing teammates, closing in on Natasha only so slightly, as if he was preparing to hold her back in case she tried something stupid.  
If anything, Natasha was completely oblivious that Steve or Thor might pose any threat to her or she decided to ignore that fact. Instead, she kept focussing her cold, angry eyes on Bruce. “You were supposed to take care of him. Something was wrong this morning. What was it?” Direct approach. Not exactly her best tactic, but maybe she was going easy on him, for now.  
“I _did_ take care of him.” Bruce felt a pang of annoyance at the suggestion that he could have failed at that duty. Then he sighed and he ruffled his head, looking at Thor and Steve and thinking that they were pretty good as protectors but not the right audience for this kind of thing. Even though… there had not been anything curious this morning, or had there been? Nah, he would have noticed right away. “He was still ill. Probably side-effects, I can’t give him what I want to give him, you know that. I don’t think he was fit to leave the house even though he may have seemed okay for the couple of minutes it takes to leave.” He shot a nasty glare to the ceiling.

She nodded to this, calmer now, at least on the outside. “Alright. So what _did_ you give him? What side-effects are we talking? Hallucinations? Disorientation? Could he hurt himself or… I don’t know… just be confused?”  
Before Bruce could actually answer her, Tony waltzed in, all nonchalance and awesomeness. “You rang, Romanov?” She pressed her lips together and clenched her fists. “Technically I asked your stupid AI to send you up. Seems your quest to get rid of my partner isn’t over after all.”  
“JARVIS is not stupid. He is _rather very intelligent_.” - “Yes, just like the man who designed him,” Natasha shot back and it didn’t exactly sound like a compliment, especially because she muttered something Russian under her breath afterwards. Tony looked irritated, but for once in his life, he just continued, ignoring her tone. “What do you mean by that? I would never kill Barton off, now that he is finally getting some action, I mean, come on, the guy might be FUN to be around now that you two - oh, I know that look.” - “What the HELL are you TALKING about?!” Thor grabbed her arm, just in time, because she looked to be close to just wrestling Tony to the ground and smother him between her thighs and although she tried to rip her arm free, she clearly wasn’t as strong as the God of Thunder.

Tony looked at her, than at Bruce and lifted his eyebrows. “Well if it wasn’t you who broke the dry-spell… and I mean by that: Jarvis, security-footage of our meeting, make it big, high-def - yes, there we are.” Tony put his hands up to the picture on the wall and then zoomed in on the hickey at Barton’s neck. “I really thought there would be just some nice sexy-spy-stuff go-” - “It’s enough, Tony.” Bruce lifted a hand and put it on Tony’s shoulder. He didn’t want Natasha to kill him, after all. It would end badly for Manhattan. 

“That…” Natasha freed herself of Thor almost brutally, “that wasn’t me. Banner, did you give him a shot in his neck while he was out cold? He didn’t have that last night. I’m sure of it.” - “That would be betraying his trust, so no. If I ever give him a shot, he will be conscious. And that…”

“Well, _some_ trust has been betrayed I’d say,” Tony declared gleefully. He seemed to actually be enjoying this mystery, like a thirteen-year-old girl on a slumber party with her friends, discussing the recent scandals at high school. “So, if it wasn’t Natasha and Brucey-kins isn’t jumping on the usual gay-train and claiming to be responsible, who was it? Thor? Some spooning with the hawk last night? You miss Dr Foster THAT much already?” Then he got a waggish glimmer in his eyes and a sly, lurking undertone in his voice. “Steeeeeeeve?”

“I ship the Norse Shield”, Thor answered solemnly. Bruce actually giggled at that even though it was a grave situation. Steve just looked highly uncomfortable and Natasha’s patience was running thinner by the second. You could actually watch her getting really, really angry..  
“I am not jumping the gay-train because I am… worried, Tony.” Bruce polished his glasses and started thinking. Well. Thornton might be a possibility. Maya. “I don’t really think that Clint’s sexlife is going to get us anywhere.” - “I agree with Dr Banner,” JARVIS pointed out without anyone asking his opinion. If there was a glimpse of mischief in there somewhere, none of the Avengers managed to place it. “Clearly, Agent Barton has not told his current love interest where he was headed.”

“Nice. Do that more often. Hm?” Bruce looked up at the ceiling. So JARVIS knew who that love-interest was… well, of course he knew. But it wasn’t his concern. “Don’t you dare Tony.” He put up a finger without looking at the man. “Clint will tell us when he is ready and you won’t use this against him. JARVIS, don’t tell him.” - “Of course, Dr Banner,” JARVIS answered. Was there a hint of sarcasm? Damn cheeky AI. Only Stark would design it to actually sound condescending when talking to people.

“JARVIS, can you pull up the footage from your security cameras at the street-level exit at the time Agent Barton left?” Natasha was back to her naturally calm, rational self, it seemed. Investigating rather than placing any more blame. It was clear whom she saw as the guilty parties, but obviously, her objective right now was finding Clint and all punishment would have to wait until afterwards.

Bruce was deeply in thought. He still was thinking about that hickey. He didn’t know who had given that to Clint, but… it had not been there the night before and… had it been there that morning? He should know that. He should be able to go through all the memories. But for a moment he just remembered how he had woken up, sniffing Clint’s hair and being entirely too close for real comfort. He could feel the blush on the back of his neck and put a hand there to hide it. 

JARVIS showed them a short video clip of Clint leaving the Tower and heading down the road. He then pulled several video feeds from along the street, making it possible to watch how Clint disabled his cell phone, walking down the street, and took a cab. “When was that?” - “Exactly 2 hours, 46 minutes and…” - “Yeah, thanks. He’s gone.” Natasha suddenly looked tired. “At this rate, we’re not going to catch up with him if he doesn’t want us to. JARVIS, why don’t you just… monitor his cell phone activity and the airport and the train station. Try running facial recognition on these two. Maybe we get lucky.” She then looked at Bruce with some expression he couldn’t exactly read. It freaked him out a little bit. “Doctor,” she asked softly, “would you mind if I joined you in your lab? I might have some samples that might help us track him down, it’s a long shot, but if you’re not busy…”

Thor tensed up and Steve looked at her warily, as if they were worried she might jump Bruce as soon as they found themselves alone, gag him and provoke the Big Guy to come smash around the tower through the means of torture. “You know, Romanov,” Tony grinned, “there’s a lot subtler ways to ask for a booty call if you want to go back at Legolas for cheating on you. Just saying.” - “That’s it, Tony.” Bruce put on a stern face. He really did not want to be alone with Natasha. But he also wanted to find Clint and maybe they could work out why he had been leaving. He put a finger in the air. “Stop trying to look like you don’t care. I am the only one who isn’t buying it and it makes them nervous. Go and check on the search algorithms you have started. Captain - I don’t know if you could maybe have a word with Fury, find out if there might have been a… spontaneous mission or something like that. Thor…. could you get Miss Foster’s assistant to try to locate him via tumblr and twitter?”  
“... I don’t know the meaning of this.”  
“She does. Tell her the tag #arms might be a good start. Agent Romanov… I’d be honoured to talk and work with you.”

Tony wolfwhistled while he was turning around. “Look at you. Totally hot while in charge. Can’t see how Legolas could let THAT go. I don’t see Steve being successful, though. Barton gave me some bull about going over to SHIELD’s and helping them as some sort of counselor. So that’s definitely not where he’s headed.” The air ventilation over them was humming.. 

Bruce just winked and then went downstairs, his StarkPad under his arm. The blush was - luckily - gone.and he could start thinking again. When they entered the lab, he called: “Recordings out,” and turned to Natasha, his arms crossed like he had to defend himself. “I didn’t do Three Lies to him again or whatever you’re thinking. I was perfectly nice.”

“So, are you going to tell me what _really_ happened between the two of you or do I have to… persuade… you?” She gave him the sweetest look, battering her eyelashes. He knew a threat when he saw one. And that had definitely been a threat.  
He sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Threats, _Agent Romanov_? Really? I thought we were past this after we had that nice little chat when you recruited me. You know. Just the two of us.”

She didn’t flinch, but there was a small flickering in her eyes when her self-assuredness broke down for a moment. “I thought we were past you lying to my face, especially concerning Clint, too.” She said it with the softest, kindest voice imaginable and that was what send cold shivers down his spine. “I _trusted_ you, Bruce, I let you in on… this _thing_ … and you decide to keep me in the dark on purpose despite what you know. What have I done to you to deserve that?”  
Bruce was at a loss for a moment. So he sighed and sat down on the couch, looked at her, pulled his hair and then shrugged again. “Natasha… I don’t know what to tell you. He was fine when he started sleeping. When I woke up I got something to eat and I came back and he was sick. He vomited and he looked haunted. I’d say he had a very bad dream and you are more of an expert of Clint Barton’s traumata than I am.”

She shook her head. “I am not, actually. We have an agreement… well, not an agreement, more of an understanding. We don’t speak of certain things. We both have lived through more than enough and we make a point of accepting each other like we are instead of… prying into each other’s past. So… playing Three Lies with him? Kissing him on the mouth? Saving his life and being his off-duty backup? Sleeping in one bed with him? Bruce, that’s all a lot closer than I have gotten over the past three months. So, no, I’m not the leading expert on Clint Barton right now. You are.”  
“I had the unfair advantage that he was drugged and just napped away.” Bruce couldn’t help but feel… well. He didn’t know. Glad perhaps. He raised his eyebrows. “And he kisses me to get at Tony. And soon enough he will do it to antagonize Thornton, I’m sure. And I didn’t save his life. I was shot in the head.” Natasha blinked, then she frowned. “Thornton? Maya Thornton? That was… two years ago. Why would he have to antagonize her now, of all times?”

Maya and Clint? Well… that was… new. At least to him it was news, but it wasn’t that important at the moment and he really didn’t know why he was surprised. _Perhaps because he didn’t act like caring about her that much, when we lost her for shopping…_ “The cousin. David. They don’t like each other that much and David is going to be his new handler. As soon as Clint notices that I am pretty much the essence of everything he despises, I am sure Clint will be all over me, just to make him frown and search the protocols for something against it.”

“ _Our_ new handler, actually.” Natasha sighed. “Worst idea Fury had all year, if you ask me. The three of us… it will never work out. Not with the boys being at each other’s throats all the time. But you’re wrong about him. He wouldn’t… _that_ protocol is actually the single one he has consciously breached before, too. He doesn’t like people who do so with close co-workers, but he wouldn’t rat you out or anything.”

“I know.” Bruce smiled. “I actually really like David. He is a nice guy. But Clint doesn’t see it that way and that is… understandable. Taking their history in consideration.”

Natasha cleared one of the lab tables of test tubes and sat down on it, cross-legged, looking at Bruce on his couch. She had that vulnerable look in her eyes, that little girl who was just worried and scared and needed reassurance. “He… told you? _Everything?_ ” There was guilt on her face, guilt and hurt and regret. “I have no way of knowing if he told me _everything_.” Bruce shrugged it off. “But he and David didn’t exactly bond at my birthday party and then there was a story that made me… angry. For a moment, nothing to fear there.”

She sighed, lowering her eyes. “So he told you about the time I ran away from SHIELD and he was teamed up with Thornton as his handler? It was actually my fault they ended up together… a really, really bad fit. But I guess he left this part out, didn’t he? That it is my fault what happened to him? He is… so… determined to seem invincible at all times. Unbreakable. As if nothing could ever get to him.”  
“Stop it right there, please.” Bruce looked at her, and something in him clenched, because he wanted to know, he wanted to know everything there was to know, he wanted to be sure and helpful and… he wanted to be there if Clint needed him. It had been so long ago that he had been _needed_. He sighed and closed his eyes. “Just… I don’t know if you are going somewhere where he isn’t. Unbreakable, I mean, and if you do, just _don’t_. Those are stories that I should not read or be told by someone else. As for the ‘your fault’-crap: We both know it wasn’t your fault. You feel that way because he was hurt and it was somehow linked to you, but… it wasn’t your fault. You’re intelligent enough to know that.”

“Well, in that case you will never hear it because he will never tell it,” she answered quietly. “He’ll take this one to his grave because he feels obligated to protect me. I thought it might… well. Interest you. After all, this is how he started resenting medical. That mission left him more vulnerable than any other before… safe one, perhaps. And I don’t just _feel_ it was my fault, I know it was. That mission… It should have been me, undercover. It would have been me, but I left and they had to substitute me in the last minute and they took Clint. He was the best choice they had, considering. And I knew that, leaving, and I took it into full account because it would prevent him from coming after me right away, I just… I had no idea that he wouldn’t be teamed up with Phil. If it had been Phil, everything… No. No ‘ifs’.”

“So it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t have all the information and I suppose you didn’t run away on a whim. You had good reasons. Someone else made a bad call. And Clint… well. Started resenting medical. He has that look that says ‘torture’.”

“I was jealous. I was stupid and clingy and _jealous_. Those are my reasons.” She shrugged. “We’re just human, too. We’re no heroes. I told you that already, didn’t I? Well, we’re not. We do bad things for the wrong reasons.” - “Heroes… that is such a funny word… but alright. No heroes. I’m gonna stick with ‘good person’ and it might take some time to convince me otherwise. And because you two are good people, I… I’d really like to find Clint. I am worried and that’s… not something I am particularly good at.” _Jealous_ He could understand that one. He could understand how someone didn’t want to be around, when… there was something happy going on.

Finally, Natasha looked up at him again and her mask was just… gone. He could see her face, her _real_ face, emotions in every single muscle, her eyes watery. “I waited for him to come after me, back then, you know?” She whispered. “It’s always been like that, I ran and he came after me. And now he’s running and I don’t know how to look for him. I don’t even know where he’s going or why he left.  
I waited for him for two whole _months_ before I realized he wasn’t coming after me, before I looked back and contacted SHIELD. Coulson told me he had gone missing in action, presumed dead. He hadn’t stopped looking for either of us, though. Phil was… he always came back for us. No matter what happened. He picked me up and we found Clint, but by then…” She bit her lower lip. “I can’t abandon him, not again.” Her shoulders were trembling, but she held it together somehow. She looked so… lost. So alone. So scared.

Bruce looked at her and didn’t know what to do. He came closer and shuffled his feet and looked around and… this really wasn’t… he shouldn’t..... But she was Natasha and she really shouldn’t be sad like that, she shouldn’t cry, he didn’t know what to _do_ about that, he really didn’t.  
So, in the end, he came closer and took her in his arms, even though it felt strange and not like anything he should do, really.

“We will find him or he will find us. Probably the latter. He wouldn’t just leave for good, not unless he was jumping in some kind of danger and there has been no sign for that, JARVIS would have told me, when I came back. Clint was just… cold and...” And hadn’t wanted Bruce to touch him. Bruce had woken up too close, he had had his hand on Clint’s skin... “I might… I think it’s my fault, I think I might have… gotten too close while I was sleeping. Maybe I overstepped a boundary. He will come back.” Natasha held on to him as if it were for dear life, but when he started talking about overstepping a boundary, she broke away from him, slowly, just far enough to look into his eyes. “What… boundary?” Her lips were trembling ever so slightly. “Bruce, I’m not blaming you, I’m not, but this is… it is important. What kind of… boundary? What did you do?” She knew something he didn’t. Something about Clint. And she was _scared_. She was horrified.

“I….” Bruce shrugged and bit his lip. He… didn’t know why he felt bad about the whole thing. He didn’t really do anything. But that wasn’t true. No one had been there with Clint but him. That whole… “I… think… maybe… I gave him that hickey. While sleeping! I… I mean, I woke up and I was snuggled too close. And there wasn’t anyone else.”

“Oh my God.” She whispered it, probably even too silent for JARVIS to catch the fleeting sounds from her lips. “All that… the jokes. The… hugging and the flirting and those kisses… It wasn’t just a joke for you, was it, Bruce?” She didn’t seem mad, just… scared. Scared and sympathetic because she seemed to feel for him, she seemed to know she was invading something she didn’t have a right to see, but she seemed to think it necessary.  
“No, I mean… I…” That was… that was not really the issue. “It’s been a long time since I’ve slept close to someone, so… so…” He thought back. Hugging and kisses and… well. He did not… he did not… no… he did that with Tony too, did he not? But well… well… “I really don’t think that…” He had never thought about what Tony’s hair smelled like. He had never… he had never really let Tony kiss him on the mouth, that was not something they did and… and he was quite sure that his lips would not have been so warm afterwards. “Ahm… no. Really. No. I… I can’t…” What? He couldn’t fall in love? That was not true, he knew that well enough, but… really… did he not have _enough_ problems already? He was hunted by the military, he turned green when he was angry and now.. .now he was… It wasn’t even that Clint was a guy but the fact, that….  
“He... trusted me. He let me take care of him and… and…” Bruce stood up, went to the garbage can and threw up.

Natasha was with him within seconds, massaging his back and trying to hold him...  
“Stay away! Radiation!” He couldn’t push her away but he didn’t know how bad stuff was that had been inside of him for quite some time.

She flinched back just as quickly as she been at his side, getting out of his immediate proximity. “JARVIS… we need the radiation levels for this lab _right now_ ,” she said in her calmest voice. There was no fear, no panic in her voice, just that soothing calmth, as if she wasn’t even scared in the slightest. Crazy just like Barton. Barton had thrown up too. Oh Lord… did he _know_? Had he _said_ something? Oh well, it couldn’t be worse than nibbling on his neck while sleeping, it was… _“The radiation is higher than normal, but there is no immediate danger as long as you are not pregnant, Agent Romanov.”_

“Thank you, JARVIS.” She stepped closer, pulling out a handkerchief and cleaning Bruce’s lips with it before she threw it in the garbage can, careful not to touch his vomit. Great. In lo--- _crushing_ on a teammate, chasing that teammate away and now being pampered by the true love of that teammate. Really. When had he become so… _pathetic_? When she was finished cleaning him with hands so careful that it felt almost lovingly, Natasha took hold of his chin, looking him straight in the eyes. She was all sympathy, all vulnerability right now. “Bruce…” He would never get how her voice could be so soft, so trembling, when he also knew it to be so harsh or so cynical at other times. “Bruce, are you in love with Clint?” Her eyes were promising him that there was nothing wrong with that, that she could understand better than anyone else, because she was there, too, she loved him too and she knew how badly it hurt, how the worries were there and the guilt, the terrible fear that something might happen to him because of them.  
Natasha could be damn chatty with her eyes. Bruce let his head hang and put a hand in his hair, pulled. He couldn’t look at her right now. “Don’t be absurd.” He didn’t know how he managed to get the words out. “I want you two together, remember? Biggest Clintasha-shipper there is.” The hand on his chin got a little bit stronger, she lifted his head up, trying to catch his eyes with hers. “It is okay,” she murmured as if she was soothing an injured little child. “It’s alright. Don’t be scared. You don’t have to be.” Her free hand was brushing some strands of his hair out of his face, tenderly, fondly. “Bruce… look at me.”  
“No.” He wouldn’t be… he wouldn’t be so pathetic. Really. He was thirty-seven years old, he would not tell Natasha that he might have developed a crush on her boyfriend, that was… no, that really was nothing what he would do. He put himself together and got to his feet.

“Bruce.” The voice was unrelenting, still soft, still warm, but it demanded his attention. “Bruce, I _need_ to know this. I’m sorry but I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t… important. It really is important. Please.” She whispered it again and he had never before heard her use that word and actually _mean_ it like now, at least it felt that way. “Please, Bruce.”

“It will be fine.” He made himself smile and worked on making himself presentable. “Really. I… I am not used to close contact and Clint can be pretty overwhelming.”

“Bruce… we don’t have much time. I can’t ease you into this, I can’t back off even if I want to… It’s about Clint, Bruce. Something might have… He might have… Please, tell me. Tell me the truth.” Her eyes were so soft. They could keep a secret. She was good at keeping secrets. But this wasn’t a secret. He would not make this a secret. “Here is what I will make the truth: _No._ No, Natasha. I… mustn’t feel _love_. So I… whatever it is, it will fade and go away. And till then: I woke up and I was very close and he had a hickey that was not there before. I don’t know if I had… inappropriate physical reactions… but that could have been a reason, don’t you think?”

“Are you in love with Clint?” She asked again, stubbornly. Determined and yet understanding.

“What does that matter?” He turned around, put a lab coat on and started his computers. He would work. He would… function. 

She smiled. There was a smile that made him feel all itchy because it was only too telling, because it felt strangely familiar, he just didn’t really know where until she quoted him and he realized where she might have gotten that particular smile. “I think we both have our answer, Doctor, don’t you? I’m sorry for pushing you. That was _mean_.”  
“It’s mean that you’re smiling. You do realise that that… would be quite the inconvenience for me, don’t you?”

She crossed her arms and just… smiled at him. There was so much mischief, but also some sort of understanding. She wasn’t making fun of him, not in a hurtful way, but she was clearly… amused. “Seems we share more than just a team-membership-card now, do we, Bruce?” She lifted her eyebrows. “Guess we also have the same _weakness_ and neither one of us wants to admit it. But we both know it’s true.”  
“You got a card?” He looked at her, his smile crooked and tired. “I got a warm handshake and two Thorntons to watch my every move.”

“No, I didn’t get a card.” She was still smiling, and then she suddenly grew earnest. “I don’t think that whatever happened between you and Clint has to do with his disappearance, Bruce. Don’t put that on your shoulders. He’s got some personal matters to attend to. It’s not about you or about me.” She smiled. “But I’m going to kill him for having us worried when he comes back. He’s a stupid stubborn bastard and he knew neither one of us would let him go. So he ran. Typical Barton, no survival instincts.”  
“Don’t kill him. I enjoy his company. He would be less nice dead. It’s hell for the skin condition too.”  
“That’s the problem. We both just like him too much and we let him get away with things like this. That way we’ll never get him disciplined, Bruce.” She winked at him. “But… if we’re honest, we probably wouldn’t like to tame him anyways. He’s…” She sighed. “He’s loved just like he is.”  
Bruce closed his eyes, leaned on the table in front of him and then shot her a look. How had it come to this situation? Where had he gone wrong? _Thirteen years ago, that kid ran on the testing field and you tried to be a hero, Banner, remember?_ “Are we really doing that, Romanov? Braiding each other’s hair and chatting away about how grey Barton’s eyes are?” And since WHEN did he know Barton’s eye-color? This was hell. This was… oh Lord. He grunted. 

“His eyes are blue, _sweetcheeks_.” She lifted her eyebrows provokingly, but she also grinned. “You might want to remember that. Now that you’re my biggest rival.”  
“Blueish-grey. I suppose he prefers the grey part. And I am not your rival, Romanov, I am the pathetic guy with the…”

“Well and I’m the pathetic killer who can’t allow herself to have feelings of any kind. Aren’t we just the pair. Between the two of us, we might actually be able to muster up half a lover.” - “Isn’t that the idea of the day? I do the stuff with all the feelings and you two have sex while I am watching out of an unbreakable cage. I really can see us getting a soap-opera-deal and a talking with Oprah.” Bruce started sniggering and then he bedded his head between his arms. Lord! What… how had this become his life? Oh, right, he remembered: Romanov had waltzed in on him and had made him part of the freak-show. He wanted his old life back. He wanted his life _in Calcutta_ back, as pathetic as that may have seemed. “And here I was thinking I couldn’t get any worse than worshipping the wedding-picture of my ex-girlfriend. You’re messing me up, Romanov.” 

“I don’t think you needed _my_ help to fall in love with our very own Cupid.” She winked, walking over to him and giving his shoulder a short, sympathetic squeeze. “I’m not going to tell anyone. Don’t worry. I’m good at keeping… secrets.”  
Still smiling, though rather sadly, she turned towards the door. “I should go… maybe I can find him out in the streets. I think he’s long off the grid, but… I know him.”

“ _Cupid / Please hear my cry / I am begging let your arrow fly / Straight to my lover's heart / For me._ ” He laughed while he was singing. Actually he started to become a little bit hysterical. He felt the laughter in him and the sobbing and he went back a little bit while singing, turning and turning. “ _I know between the both of us / His heart we can steal / You can help me if you will / So, Cupid / Draw back your bow / And let your arrow flow / Straight to my lover’s heart._ ”

Natasha smiled at his song. She had a pretty smile, but just like with his laughter, there was a lot of sadness. She gave him a kiss on the cheek, as if she was trying to apologize for pushing him towards that truth she had made him realize so brutally. Then she left him there, left to look for the man they both loved.  
Bruce hummed and sang and he became louder while he was at it, until he screamed and then he fell backwards on the couch and he sang and he cried and he thought that Natasha might have been good at keeping secrets but why did she have to tell him? He had been good while not knowing. Not knowing had been… better. 

“Hey, Brucey-kins, you’re there?”  
“Yes, Tony.” He wisped the tears of his cheeks and then sat up and switched the screen on. Tony was grinning at him.  
“So, big guy, I got the security-footage from the airport and our pretty elf has made his way to Los Angeles. You’re from there, aren’t you, our own sweet little angel?”  
“I’m from Ohio, Tony.” Bruce made a face and winked at Tony. “Well… he’s still in the States, that’s good. I’ll ask Natasha if he has business there.”  
“You do that, sweetcheeks. Hey, you’re up for Mario Kart?”  
“You wanna be served again? I always make you cry.”  
“That’s Super Smash Brothers!”  
“It is EVERYTHING where you can’t cheat. But well. Yes. I’ll be up in a minute.”

He stayed for a moment and looked up at the ceiling. L.A., huh? His gaze wandered over the lab. There was no other him to be seen. Bruce huffed and put his hand over his eyes. He had no doubt that Clint would come back. But he _did_ start to doubt if _he_ shouldn’t probably go away for some time until… until…

_...he didn’t know how his lips tasted._  
...he forgot how Clint’s hair smelled.  
...he did not think about how to make him smile all the time.  
...he didn’t think it was a good idea to talk with Natasha about working out a time-share-model. 

He was oh. So. Screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Natasha can be mean but... are we really going to get angry about that?


	17. 16. Numb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint returns from the City of Angels, determined to make this friendship work. However, Bruce has to take an unscheduled leave of absence. He's leaving behind a substitute. No one is happy about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are very sorry about the delay. We have a lot of the following chapters ready or half-ready, but reallife can be a bitch. We hope you'll like what you read. We certainly enjoyed writing it, but we are a bunch of sadistic bastards. ;)

  
**16\. Numb**

_Can't you see that you're smothering me?_  
 _Holding too tightly_  
 _Afraid to lose control_  
 _'Cause everything that you thought I would be_  
 _Has fallen apart right in front of you_  
 _Caught in the undertow_  
 _Just caught in the undertow_  
 _Every step that I take is another mistake to you_  
 _Caught in the undertow_  
 _Just caught in the undertow_  
 _And every second I waste is more than I can take_

_I've become so numb_  
 _I can't feel you there_  
 _I've become so tired_  
 _So much more aware_  
 _I'm becoming this_  
 _All I want to do_  
 _Is be more like me_  
 _And be less like you_

 

Stark Tower | October 5, 2013

**I**  


The first thing Clint did, as soon as he left the airport, was looking for a phone booth. He had been tense ever since he left New York four days ago, even though he’d heard his brother’s voice that day and Barney had told him he was fine. _Fine_. Clint started to understand Jennifer Walter’s frustration with that word. Everyone was always just _fine_ , fucking _fine_ , just that they were NOT, no one really was, they were all just fucking liars and he was getting so sick of it, so sick of his own lies and of Bruce’s and of Barney’s and even of Natasha’s because seriously, what the hell was the matter with the world if they all just had to keep lying to each other, lying and lying and lying?

He called the contact like he’d done it before and he hung up and he waited. And he waited. He waited for fifteen minutes, stressed out and with that nauseated feeling in his stomach. Something was wrong, he just knew it, but he didn’t even have an address on his brother or a damn cell phone number, he just had this stupid landline for some sushi joint and all he could do was hope they’d call Barney on another line and make sure no one could actually connect those calls and trace them back to him. Barney was risking his life and he, Clint, couldn’t do anything about it.

When he couldn’t bear waiting any longer, he called again. And hung up. Just like before. That was the signal, after all. And he waited, he waited for six more minutes. And then his neck was crawling so badly he just _knew_ he couldn’t stay here because if Barney had been taken, if his cover had been blown, then whoever was still answering that other line might just as well be handing the number of Clint’s phone booth to Zemo.

So he went on, pulled his hood over his head and walked, face down, kept walking as quickly as he could without starting to look suspicious. The slight rain was actually helping. Most people just hid under their umbrellas and minded their own business. He’d been flying all day and now the sun was setting, colouring New York’s skyline in narrow lines of gold, drowning in blood and overrun by smog. Clint tugged the duffle bag tighter over his shoulder, his free hand straightening his black leather jacket that he was wearing over the hoodie. He could feel the gun he’d left in an airport locker before he left, reclaiming it after he landed, tucked away safely in the back of his jeans as the jacket pressed it against his back. Smuggling it past airport security would have been far too great a risk, especially when he was not planning to get into a fight in L.A..  
Well, he hadn’t. This had been a clean in and out, there and back again, no drama and for once no cuts or bruises or gunshot wounds. Just the thoughts that were preventing him from sleeping. He felt like crap. He was so damn tired. He’d been tired ever since… well, ever since he’d been shopping with Banner, actually, but it hadn’t been really bad until four days ago, after _that_ night. He couldn’t bring himself to sleep any more. Didn’t matter if it was light or dark or if there were sounds or silence. He couldn’t sleep in on the plane and he hadn’t been able to shut his eyes in those lousy motel rooms he’d stayed the last few nights in. Motels were great. Anonymous and if you were lucky, you still got your own shower that wasn’t even too mouldy.

He’d had it far worse. He’d slept in war zones, even during bomb attacks, and under highway bridges and even standing up, hanging from the ceiling, his hands in metal cuffs. Been there, done that, no problem really. Natasha would envy his ability to sleep anywhere, really, everywhere, just close his eyes and doze off, gliding into a dreamless slumber in no time at all. He preferred sleeping on his belly, but he could really sleep in any given posture. She also envied his ability to jerk up as soon as he was woken and be ready to fight or flight right away, close to no wake-up time.

After Loki, his sleep had been compromised. There had been dreams. Nightmares. Not that bad at first, then worse and worse and the one he’d had throughout the last few weeks really had been the worst of them all and Clint would wake up screaming and gagging and running for the toilet to get rid of his dinner.  
Until four days ago, when he had stopped sleeping altogether because he’d woken up and had lived through an actual nightmare, one he couldn’t just discard as his subconscious being a princess because it was real, it had happened, and now he was just… broken.

He’d lie awake at night, motionless, staring in the dark, his heart racing and his mouth dry and his palms all sweaty and he’d be scared to death because he was afraid Robert might come back. It was childish. It was so stupid. He knew that. He hated himself for the state he was in because he couldn’t even grasp how he could live through torture and bloodshed and war and be able to sleep after all of that, and then have it all ripped from him by a fucking blow-job.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t NORMAL.

And he still felt dirty. He had the constant urge to shower, to clean himself, but it didn’t work. And when he closed his eyes now he could see Jennifer Walters before him and hear her sweet little voice, see how she was shuffling her feet and rearranging her glasses and trying to be fucking _nice_ to him and to make him _understand_ and he listened again while she explained how it all had been one big misunderstanding and his very own fault and how he should be friends with Robert or talk to Robert or do anything with Robert except the one thing he had wanted to do before, kill the guy, hurt the guy, fucking skin him alive. She had taken that from him. She had taken away his anger and his hate and now there was just nothing left, just the fear at night and at every waking minute, that fear that had consumed him, numbing his mind and his soul and emptying him, emptying his fucking bones.

So he was going back to the Tower. He’d go there and he’d stay there. He wouldn’t be able to sleep anywhere, so it didn’t really make a difference where he _didn’t_ sleep. And he knew Tasha was there. _Tasha…_

The thought of Tasha ripped his heart right apart. He could not look her in the eyes, not after what had happened, he just knew. He couldn’t let her touch him, he couldn’t let any of them touch him, never again. It had been okay with handshakes, while undercover. That was the strangest thing. Undercover, in L.A., everything had been easier. He just took on some role and he stuck to it and he played it well. He was damn good at playing roles. And then Jennifer Walters had seen right through that role, no matter how well he played it, because of lousy copy-shop paper. And he’d been himself. He could all but tell her his name. Well, she was smarter than she gave herself credit for. She’d figure it out if she wanted to. She had ripped away his mask anyways, taking a look at the shivering, sobbing, fucking _mess_ that was left of him.

So now he’d do that again. He’d just put on another persona. Clint Barton, the archer, before his entire life had been shaken to the core. He could do that, right? He could pretend to be another person with the same name, someone who had never been possessed or raped, someone whose black pool hadn’t been dried out and filled up with nothingness.

 

He took a cab somewhere along the way and asked to be taken to the Stark Tower. There was no reason for any more detours. His brother was likely captured or dead or hanging somewhere to be tortured and it wasn’t that these possibilities didn’t get to him, they did, he still _cared_ and he was worried sick and he wanted to go out there and look for him… but he also, strangely, couldn’t bring himself to hurt any more. There was just no pain left.

 _“Welcome home, Agent Barton”_ , JARVIS greeted him when he pulled off his hoodie and typed in his security code for the elevator. Clint smiled at the air, completely friendly, so friendly, almost happy, and NORMAL. Just… normal. “Thanks, JARVIS. Avengers out for a spin ‘round the city?” – _“No, Agent Barton, they are actually all in the living room. It is curry night.”_ Clint didn’t even flinch. As soon as he’d pulled off the hoodie, he had stepped into his undercover identity. And that Agent Barton wasn’t scared of the others one bit.  
“Yeah, well. I’ll be going straight to my room. Don’t tell them I’m here, I’ll talk to everyone in the morning. I’m pretty tired. Long trip.” There was no answer for a second and Clint sighed. “You already told ‘em, didn’t you?” – _“I am afraid Agent Romanov would like a word first, Agent.”_ As soon as the AI had told him that, Clint could hear Natasha’s voice ripping through the enclosed space in the elevator, cutting through him like a knife. _**“Get your ass in the living room, Barton. ASAP. No detours. I’ll be looking at the clock.”**_ Her intonation said everything else. It had been calm and almost sweet. Not yet her sweetest voice, not the crazy torturer’s voice, but close enough. He’d better not mess with her right now.

Clint sighed. “Tell ‘em I’ll be right there.”

He stepped out of the elevator and walked through the hallway to the living room, no more detours. He would have loved to avoid all of them for another night, but where was the point, really? They would be pissed in the morning, too, and he was tired either way. So best to get it over with quickly, right?

They were grouped around the coffee table in the living room. Natasha was sitting on the right couch, between Thor and Steve, and Stark was lying down on the other one. Bruce was occupying an armchair – the one farthest away from Natasha, Clint noticed. He had pulled his feet in under his body, balancing a bowl with steaming curry on his lap, and he looked as tired as Clint felt. There were big dark circles under his bloodshot eyes.  
When Clint entered, Bruce didn't look up at first and when he finally did, it was forced and shy and you could see that the smile on his face wasn't real, not by a long shot. “Welcome back, honeysuckle”, he murmured and then looked back at his bowl, his shoulders hunched.  
Everyone else just stared at Clint expectantly.

“So. Yeah. Hi.” He dropped his duffle back and looked at them. No one was scratching his eyes out, that was a good sign, right? He hadn’t expected embraces and he was actually pretty happy they didn’t try something like that. “Sorry for stepping out on you like that, it was…” He looked at Bruce. He knew his undercover story well. He’d been practicing it all the way from Los Angeles. “Ladies-problems?” Stark wiggled his eyebrows. 

Clint nodded calmly. “Yeah, if you want to be really insensitive about it, you could say that. Sorry about rushing out like that, Bruce, it’s just… I got a phonecall while you were getting breakfast. Personal. My uncle died. No blood relative… but… yeah, well, I called him uncle. So my ‘aunt’ called and told me ‘bout the funeral. I was pretty out of it. And I figured SHIELD wouldn’t just let me go to L.A. on such short notice so I kind of… took a leave of absence. Had to be there for her, it just was...” He looked at Natasha. She was frowning, but she was also hesitating. She didn’t want to buy it just like that, didn’t want to believe it was that simple, but he was puzzling her. He almost had her.

“Sensitivity is my second, no, third name. Anthony Awesome Sensitivity Stark!”  
Steve looked heartbroken. “Clint, I am so sorry for your loss.” He stood up and came nearer, looked for a moment like he was going to hug him and then just took his hand and squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll be fine, Steve. But… thanks.” Clint retreated only so slightly, clapping his hand on Steve’s upper arm. “It means a lot.”  
“Good call, Captain Awkward.” Tony was already eating curry again. “Wouldn’t want sweetcheeks to become jealous, I hear that turns people green.” Clint forced a short smile on his lips. The best part about his story was that he had a right to be bumped. He didn’t have to be all hunky-dory because none of them would be if a relative - or non-relative - died so suddenly.

Bruce shot Tony a glance. “I liked you more, when _you_ were jealous, Stark.” - “What can I say? I am over you, Brucey-kins. OVER I say! I moved on! I found someone better!”  
Clint lifted his eyebrows. “That’s a shame, ‘cause that really makes me lose interest in him altogether. Is that weird in any way?” He went to the couch, touched Natasha on the shoulder and offered Bruce a fist-bump over the coffee table. Bruce bumped his fist without taking his eyes from his food. Clint had a sick feeling in his stomach. This was awkward, right? It felt fucking awkward, it felt _wrong_ and why the HELL was everyone looking at him except for Bruce?! “Hope you’re all okay. And didn’t get worked up or anything. Like I said I was pretty out of it and didn’t have really that much time before SHIELD might start looking, so yeah. Figured you’d find the airport footage anyhow. Sorry if I…” He shrugged. “It’s okay, Barton,” Natasha told him and punched him in the side, softly enough to not hurt him and hard enough for his cracked ribs to shriek in pain. She really _was_ a mean one sometimes. “Just f.y.i.,” she then told him, “you pull a stunt like that again and you won’t have to worry ‘bout any funeral but your own.” He grinned and it felt almost natural. “Yeah, right. Thanks Nat.” 

He couldn’t help but look at Banner. Banner, who wouldn’t look back at him. Clint got a slight frown on his forehead, but before he could say anything, Thor interrupted his line of thought. “Well, you must be quite hungry, hawk-eyed one. Do you wish for a bowl of this delicious Midgardian stew the kind Doctor prepared for all of us?”  
“I’ll get you a bowl.” Bruce stood up. “You don’t get a say in this, I have no idea if you have eaten at all in these last few days and -” Now he _did_ glance up, but just for a moment. “- and you haven’t slept, have you? Sit. Just sit there with Natasha, Thor you can go to Tony. Sit, Barton! No more moving.”

“I am still standing, so that’s a good sign, right?” Clint shouted after him and sat down as he’d been ordered and felt Natasha’s hand clap over the back of his head just as he was taking a seat. “What was that for?” He looked at her a little bit like a high-school kid, sheepishly innocent, and she smiled grimly. “Because he’s right. You’re clearly not fit to survive on your own. And we _were_ worried. I mean, you couldn’t leave a note? Are you somehow retarded, Barton? I was halfway to the morgues when we found that stupid footage.” He felt a rush of guilt, but he swallowed it. “You’ve learned to exaggerate while I’ve been gone. That’s cool.” - “Not an exaggeration, Clint.”

“Mummy and daddy were fighting because of you,” Stark informed him casually. “Bruce! Be a honeybear and get me some whiskey, while you’re at it, ‘kay?”  
Thor leaned over to Natasha and gave her his best puzzled expression. “I thought that the Iron Man’s parents were dead?”  
Natasha sighed. “Yes, he’s talking about me and Bruce.” Thor looked even more confused now and Clint rolled his eyes. “Stark is making fun of the fact that there are two members of this team who felt responsible for my well-being seeing that I had the flu a few days back.”  
“I must say… I do not understand how your endearments work. For a while, the good Doctor was the Iron Man’s Wife-”  
“Nah, I am the pretty one and he caught me bridal-style. So Brucey gets to wear the tux.”  
“And now he is the father and… this explains why you invented stories thus colourful about my brother.”

Clint groaned. “Just… leave it alone, Stark. Seriously. It’s been a hell of a week and I don’t have the nerves right now to take your usual stupid. ‘specially when you’re tormenting Thor.”  
“Get used to me being awesome, again, Barton. And - oh, Brucey-kins, I take it back, I’m keeping you, you are the best!”  
Bruce re-entered the room and shrugged while he pushed a whole whiskey-bottle in Tony’s hands before putting a bowl in Clint’s. He lifted a finger to his lips and winked.  
“Seeeeee! I am still your favourite, aren’t I Brucey-kins?”  
“I thought you had replaced me?”- “Not a chance!”  
“Thanks, Bruce,” Clint took the bowl and caught Banner by the wrist before he could get back to his armchair, trying to look him in the eyes. “Hey… I am sorry. I really am. Shouldn’t have gone off on you like that. Or… run away. I’m sorry. We’re good, right?” It took all his self-restraint to just touch Banner like that, but thankfully, his undercover identity didn’t see a problem there.  
“Yes. Yes, of course we are. We are -” Bruce stopped there, catching the last word, before it could escape. “- _fine_.” Clint ended the sentence for him and let go of his wrist, purposefully so slowly that it wouldn’t look suspicious. Hopefully. _Yeah, I’ve noticed, that’s why I’m asking…_ God. He hated this adjective. He so got Jennifer Walter’s resentment of the catchphrase by now. Especially because he still wanted to use it himself.  
“No. We are _good_.” Banner smiled then and looked up, just for a second. His hand was massaging the wrist Clint had hold. “We… we really are, I am… tired, I guess. Experiment. And I had to show Tony that he can’t win at Mario Kart. Or anything.”  
“EXCEPT for Dance Revolution!” - “I am not counting that, Tony. I was practically napping on the matt.”

Clint brought a smile to his lips even though it felt absolutely wrong and he could but jump off the couch and run out screaming. “That sounds like I’ve missed quite the show.” He was still cradling the bowl of curry on his lap and he wasn’t so sure he wanted to eat anything. There was the danger of throwing up again. He’d been throwing up for close to three weeks now, all the time. He was so sick of eating and puking, where was the point in that anyways… but then he took the spoon and he forced some of the yellowish stuff down his throat. It smelled bad and tasted worse, but he pulled himself together, smiled and said: “Mmh, that’s good,” just because it was the polite thing to say and because he didn’t want any more attention on himself.  
Bruce shuffled his feet, nodded and then shared one short glance with Natasha, before he went back to his armchair and folded into himself. Clint recognized the glance and it was then that he realized there were glances between Bruce and Natasha, all the time. They were sitting as far from each other as possible and they were throwing glances at each other. But he wouldn’t ask. Not now. He’d find it out, eventually, right? He could only hope there was nothing going on between them because as much as he disliked every guy Natasha chose for herself anyways, he was pretty sure he never wanted to have someone in their lives they had both slept with. That was just… no. Please, God, no.

Tony was eyeing the whiskey and went to open it.  
“Please - at least use a glass,” came Bruce’s plea. He didn’t even look up for that. Up to this point, there had been a glass beside Tony but then he just started grinning.  
Clint felt that beg go right through him and had to fight down the instant urge to punch something. He tensed up without even noticing it. _At least it’s not Gin_ , he told himself and tried to be calm about it, cool, because Stark drank all the time and because they were all fucking used to it and as soon as he’d emptied that sickening bowl of crappy tasting yellow mush on his knees, he’d be free to go to bed, claim jet-lag and not come out for at least two days. 

“I think THAT’s game I could win. You and me, Brucey-kins! We against this bottle!”  
Bruce looked up, a little bit haunted and shy and that was when Stark opened the bottle, tipped his head back and emptied a fourth of it.  
It took a moment. Stark sat there and started to turn green and then he _spat_ everything over the carpet. After another moment, Bruce started to giggle and then to laugh. He had one arm around his stomach and the other hand on his mouth. “Looks like you lost, Stark,” Clint remarked dryly and he could feel Tasha shifting in her seat, laughing as well.

Stark looked like a train had hit him. He stared at the bottle and than at Bruce. 

And then Clint remembered. He finally got to place that wink Bruce had just offered him. He remembered that night in the kitchen that now seemed to be a life-time ago and how he’d found Bruce and given him tips on how to exchange Stark’s booze with ginger ale and apple juice. And when their eyes met, he knew that Bruce remembered it too, of course, sly bastard, he’d given Tony this bottle on purpose and he’d manipulated him into drinking right out of it, thus covering up the different smell. There was a moment between them when they just both knew they’d take that secret to their graves. And they’d always cherish this moment because seriously, no prank could go better than this. This was just _too_ good. Steve was grinning and Thor was roaring and Natasha was almost cramping of laughter she was trying to suppress. Even Clint felt a chuckle rise inside of him, but then he just leaned back and smiled and was sort of glad he’d not missed this. This was good. He still felt empty but… the awkwardness wasn’t there any more. Thank God. Or Bruce, because it had been his genius plan to begin with.

Bruce smiled for a short moment. It was a calm and content smile and then he looked up and at Clint and he cocked his head and looked… whole. “I am glad you’re back. I’ve been dying to give him that bottle.” Clint lifted his eyebrows. _Oh, so we ARE taking responsibility? Okay…_ “Thanks for waiting for me. That couldn’t have been easy.”  
“I contented myself with beating him at every game that has ever been invented.”

“Yeah, well, I guess that wasn’t too hard for you, was it, _sw-_ Bruce?” Clint stopped himself before he could use the nickname he’d given Banner and a second later he cursed himself for it because he caught a hasty side glance of Natasha’s and knew that she’d noticed and he also knew that Banner would notice because that guy was freakishly _smart_. Maybe even Tony might notice, but well, he still had that dumb speechlessness on his face. They’d gotten him, and good.  
Bruce licked his lips and was about to say something, when Tony decided that he was amongst the living people again. “You know what? That’s enough! I AM replacing you!” - “Doom, Pym or Reed?” “What????” - “You know, as a replacement. Doom is a pretty good choice, you could… work together. And invade some countries. Pym is a little bit too much into small animals and he doesn’t know how ‘Mario Kart’ is written. Which leaves Reed. Shall I call him?”  
“You. Are. EVIL!” 

Clint went back to his usual role in the group, fading away in the background, watching and eating his curry - more like forcing it down with any self-control he could muster and his entire concentration forced into his undercover-role so that he could look as if he actually enjoyed food - and listening to their babbling. He was glad it was over and the entire fuzz about his absence had officially been settled. 

Steve looked as though he’d like to ask something in the middle of Banner and Stark having at it one more time, bickering contest reloaded for the thousandth time. And Tasha just looked at the Cap, reached for the remote control and switched the TV-set on, going straight for the news, still grinning. She tried to put one of her arms around Clint, but he saw it coming and changed his posture the same moment, sitting up on the armrest cross legged so that all she could do was put her hand on his knee. Which she chose not to do, frowning at him. He ignored her, watching the TV instead.

They were announcing a special about WWII, Captain America and the wonderful engineer, pioneer, business man and father Howard Stark. Steve looked a little bit surprised and Tony groaned. “YES! Of COURSE! NOW he is also freaking father of the year, uh I BET they will say that he made me the genius that I am today!” He waited for a little while and when Steve wanted to say something against that, he put a hand over his mouth and nearly crawled on his lap. “NO! You won’t say nice stuff about him, because he has been a HORRIBLE father and they will make him sound like the best one ever. I mean - the guy NEVER acknowledged me! Most of the time I was just in the way, he really shouldn’t have gotten any kids. He had his SECRETARY buy my birthday-presents! He didn’t know what I liked, he didn’t know WHEN my birthday was! He was an awful father and I won’t tolerate a show that is basically telling me that he was a fucking saint just because he used what he had plenty: Money.”

Clint felt himself tense up at that and he couldn’t help it, his eyes flickered over to Banner and that same moment, Banner was looking at him. They just looked at each other, knowingly, both forcing back a sarcastic comment. And then there was the slightest nod, more like a lowering of their eyelids, and they smiled and went back to what they’d been doing, watching the WWII special and listening to Tony as if he actually had a right to feel sorry for himself because it had been so god-awful growing up a rich kid with a father who didn’t make a big fuss every time his son entered the room. Clint’s self-restraint, however, was used up by his continuous attempt to eat and look normal and halfway-content, so he didn’t exactly have a lot of patience left for Stark and at some point, it was just too much. “Yeah, well, maybe they’ll put on a show tomorrow about how great a boyfriend you are, Stark,” he couldn’t stop himself from saying. He knew it was mean in a way but he just felt like he had to say _something_ and he wouldn’t bitch about _his_ childhood with Banner in the room, who’d had it worse by a long run. No way. “When’s Pepper’s birthday again? Remind me. I wouldn’t want to miss it. And I’m sure you can tell me her favourite cake… strawberry. Right?”

“You know what? FUCK YOU Barton! Everyone knows I am a horrible person, but THAT guy did not even TRY and he was the goddamn SAINT and THE BEST FATHER and I am fucking sick of it, thinking back and -”

Clint didn’t even flinch. He didn’t get angry, either. He just sat there and took the shouting in and relished it because it echoed in the emptiness inside of him and for a moment, it almost felt as if he still had feelings of some sort. Strangely… good. “Yeah. Sorry, Stark. Must’ve been _hell_ growing up for you. Wouldn’t want to imagine it.” He said it calmly, not even trying to be ironic or sarcastic or even damn mocking. As if he was honestly sorry or as if he honestly regretted his words. Which he didn’t, by the way.

Bruce looked like he wanted to say something but then the program just changed and he looked at the TV, a puzzled expression on his face. The documentary was gone and now there was a man in a white room, sitting at a table, looking straight into the camera. He had white hair and mean, little eyes. _“Hello America. I am here to offer an invitation to the monster. I_ know _that you are watching. I can nearly feel your dead, evil eyes on me and I can’t wait to finally put the world out of the misery of having you in it.”_ The man let his fingers tap on the table in front of him. They started a rhythm and then stopped, before it became recognizable. _“Giving birth to you… it_ tainted _your mother. You are fooling everyone, but not me. I know you. I know all the monstrosity you have in you.”_  
Clint did what he did best, he sat back and he listened, taking it all in, taking in what he heard and trying to figure out the meaning of it. He could hear his own voice, he could hear how he said ‘monster’ and then Jennifer Walters bumped her fist on the table and snapped at him ‘DON’T!’ and that sounded so damn familiar, so damn… He knew this, didn’t he? His eyes left the TV and wandered over to Bruce, taking him in, studying him as he watched the strange, evil man with the white hair. Banner looked pale and there was a little tremor in his hand. Clint’s eyes flickered around, but everyone else was watching the TV; strangely fascinated and freaked out at once. He was the only one who noticed that tremor and he felt something take hold of him with an icy grip, pulling him under and holding him close the longer he listened to the real monster, the one in the TV, and looked at the man for whom the message was meant. Had Barney looked like this when he heard of Clint’s ‘little mishap’? No, probably not. Barney must have been angry. Clint would have been angry, so angry. But that was the thing with Bruce. He didn’t get that sort of angry, he just went into shock. Still, Clint felt all of his muscles tighten up and stiffen and his one hand went to his back, gliding under the shirt and the jacket and groping its way for the gun. He had been silent about it, but Natasha, sitting right next to him and having the senses of a survivor, caught his glance and realized whom he was looking at and tensed just as much, ready to jump, get out of here. She was bridging the gap between her and Tony with her eyes, since he was the most vulnerable next to the two of them. Clint nodded to her ever so slightly and estimated if he could drag the Cap out of the line of smash if necessary. No. Bad idea. Shouting would have to do if it came to that.

 _“So. I know that you can find me. And I am waiting for you. Me and someone you might remember. Someone who has been tainted by your touch too.”_ The man put something on the table: A little package, wrapped in red and yellow paper. The man looked at it for a moment and then smashed it with his fist. Bruce - or Robert - flinched. Clint’s eyes flickered over to the TV set for just a second and he caught a glimpse of the remains and he just _knew_ what it was and he remembered Jennifer Walter’s voice as she said ‘Betty. Elizabeth Ross’, and he felt his stomach turn to ice. The man looked into the camera, looked right into it. Bruce lifted his hands - first his right, then his left and he shook hands with himself. The man on TV leaned back on his seat. _“I will clean the world of EVERYTHING you have touched.”_ Then there was the documentary again.

Everyone stared at the TV.

Clint didn’t waste much time. He stood up and left the room, going to the hallway, where he pulled out his phone, enabled it and pressed the ‘2’, calling directly to Deputy Director Maria Hill’s office. He was lucky, she was still there. “Ma’am, we have a situation. I need a protective detail on Elizabeth Ross right away, I know you’re probably still watching her in some way so you can be quick about it. Don’t ask me why, I’ll explain later. Do it right away. Whatever you got.” She was puzzled for a moment, but then she just said, “you better have a damn good reason for going off the grid and then calling me out of the blue with something like this, Barton,” and he nodded and told her she’d get his paperwork in the morning although she knew that that was a lie and she didn’t really care for his paperwork anyways, and he hung up.

Robert looked at him and smiled and just shook his head, when he came back into the living room.  
“What -” Steve looked at the TV and then at Clint “Who was that?”  
“My father.” Robert said it while still sitting in the armchair, deeply in thought.  
“Bruce…” Steve coughed. “Your father is dead.”  
“No, I just… went imaginative on my paperwork. It seems there has been only one person interested enough to check in person.”

Clint pressed his lips together. So there went his story about a carny’s funeral. He didn’t even have to explain any of this to Robert because the thing had Bruce’s brain, didn’t it? It seemed to have. He knew it was Robert, he just knew by the cold look in his eyes and the sudden calmth and the fact that he held himself up straight, tense and proud and with his shoulders back like Bruce would never do it. And he felt sick to the core, he wanted to puke or scream but he didn’t do anything. “I’m not going to say I’m sorry,” he then told Robert and he heard how his voice was shaking and he felt tears burn in his eyes and blinked them away. “Betty’s safe. SHIELD will put protective detail on her right away. They’re good with that sort of stuff.”

“And you believe my father would have made this… _speech_ if he hadn’t had her already? How cute.” He finally stood up, stretched and looked around, smiling at everyone. 

As if to answer him, Clint’s phone rang. Hill. “Crap,” he murmured and answered it, listening to what she was saying and nodding. “Thanks anyway. Yeah. Thanks for… trying. I’ll get right on it, too.” He looked at Robert while he was hanging up and ignored everyone else in the room. “You’re right. He was faster. So what’s your plan?”

**II**

Robert glanced around. He looked at all of them for a short moment. The redhaired woman who was so tough and so weak. The hero who had been robbed of his martyr-death. The God who was searching for perfection in humanity. The egoistic kid. And the man who was watching, the man who was broken and whole at the same time. Natasha Romanov. Steve Rogers. Thor Odinsson. Anthony Stark. Clint. What better… combatants could he have asked for?

Clint didn’t sit back down. He stayed on his feet, closest to the door, looking as if he was ready to run at any moment, should Robert as much as make a step in his direction. He was tense in an extreme way. The little wild one was almost losing it, Robert could see his fragility in his eyes, an uncertainty, a fear for his dear life. It didn’t make any sense. Not for the moment at least. He would ask about that later.  
“Well, I _guess_ a briefing is in order. Everyone’s confused. So. I’ll make this quick and simple.” He looked around, his hands in his pockets. They were watching him, but they did not see. It was different with Clint, of course. But even Clint hadn’t really seen him. He had had Bruce and him mixed up. That didn’t seem to be a problem any more. Robert had known from the very start - Bruce had picked himself a bright little bird. He decided to tell the rest of them what they needed to know and what they might find out either way. 

“That man was my father. Brian Banner. A genius, but… not that much. He wouldn’t make it near the magical list. He killed my mother when I was seven, he abused me physically until I was ten and he was incarcerated in an institution. The Graham Memorial Asylum, to be fully correct. At this moment it seems that he has escaped and is… _luring_ me in some kind of trap, using Elizabeth Ross as bait. As far as I know he doesn’t know about the Other Guy. I’d appreciate all your help while finding him and rescuing Betty. But I must say this now, so there won’t be any misconceptions or… misunderstandings. These tend to become awfully embarrassing.”

He put the glasses down, took them of his nose and put them in his pocket. His gaze went over to Clint again, who was shaking like only little birds could shake. Robert let his nostrils flare and he could _smell_ it. _Fear._ Well. He would have to do something about that.  
Robert listened into himself, but Bruce was gone for the moment, truly gone. They had made their pact and Bruce had decided to sleep and to weep and Robert would let him do that.  
“At the end of this mission I will kill Brian Banner. I will probably eat his heart, just to be sure. And I don’t recommend for any of you to stand between me and him at that moment.” He smiled. He waited for the first one to say something against it. 

“Bruce would not want you to do that.” Clint was pale and he was shaking and he was holding on to the doorframe as if it was for dear life. But he stood his ground nevertheless, stubborn little wild one. “He didn’t let you kill him all these years and he wouldn’t want you to do it now. You do that, you’re exactly what your father says you are. A monster. And there’s no coming back from that. And he’ll blame himself. You know he will.” Robert sighed. He put a hand through his hair and ignored the people around them, these confused, unimportant people. He took a step towards Clint. Then another. And Clint retreated. He pressed himself to the wall and then he stepped into the hallway, backwards, keeping his distance and reaching for something at his lower back, eyes wide and breath flowing. So Robert stopped and he lifted his hands. “Easy there, little wild one. I won’t come nearer, alright? I’ll stay exactly where I am.”

Clint flinched at the nickname as if he’d been punched. His eyes were like two black holes, close to no blue or grey left in them. But he stopped like a carny standing in front of a big cat. Robert remembered the story. “Don’t forget Reagan”, he said and then he made himself say the next words. He had the feeling, that Clint wouldn’t like them. “Bruce is already blaming himself for getting Betty into trouble. He knows what father might do to her. So… we made a pact. I am allowed to. I am supposed to. I am very glad that you’re looking after him. I really am. You could make his life so much better.” - “Not doing it for _you_ ,” Clint pressed out between teeth clenched tight, hostility in his eyes.  
“That’s alright.”  
“Ahm..guys? Break? Hello? I am noooooooooot so sure I know what’s going on right now, it MIGHT make sense in both your heads, but not here in the real world, so… EXPLAIN!” Stark’s gaze was going from Robert to Clint and back. He was looking… freaked out. Sometimes he looked back to the TV. Romanov - of course -- was just ready to fight at any moment. Thor held Mjölnir and was waiting for… someone to explain, perhaps. Steve looked a little bit frozen. Maybe he still had to digest that there had been faults with the files. 

“You’re so proud of being smart, Stark,” Clint said coldly, “you were even the one who got me to investigate this. Don’t you remember? You already had the answer on a silver platter after your pair therapy.” He didn’t take his gaze of Robert, not for a second. “That’s not Bruce Banner. Easy as that.”  
“Well, it makes me glad that we always had a double-name. Robert Bruce. Don’t make me sound like the evil twin, it is so cliché, little one.”  
“Yeah, well, that’s exactly what it is. Very Jekyll and Hyde, in a way. He’s the strong one, he’s taking the tough choices and playing the protector when he isn’t busy being a bloody psychopath,” Clint informed the rest with an ongoing tremble in his voice. 

Robert got the feeling that he should have a little chat with Clint about a few things. Like… that he wasn’t really a psychopath and that Bruce was able to make tough choices, too. But he liked being called the strong one. It made him smile. 

“Well, I am sorry, but I don’t really care what the exact definition is.” Rogers puffed his chest out and came over, looking like he tried very hard to NOT freak out. Did they recognize split personalities back then or was he thinking about getting Anthony Hopkins and a bible? The man put a hand on Robert’s shoulder. “I can’t just let you kill someone, I am sorry, but-”  
Robert looked down on the hand on his shoulder. He lifted his eyebrows. “Well, Mr Rogers, I have to inform you that you - actually - can not _make_ me do anything. And like I said: Stand between me and that man and I will hurt you. I will try not to kill you but I might be in a hurry and we all should try not to make such a mess out of this, don’t you think?”  
When the hand did not move, he sighed again and turned to the only bright person beside himself in that room. “Dearest… could you make him see sense? I am trying to organize the rescue of a damsel in distress here and I must say it would have been easier doing that as Bruce. And Rogers might be useful, so I really don’t want to break him. Even though…” And then he cocked his head and started looking at Rogers again. He had wanted to punch that man for quite some time and it WOULD even out some of the bumps he could see on the road before them all.  
“Don’t call me that. Ever. Again.” Clint stayed exactly where he was but he was fidgeting slightly, as if he was thinking about retreating even further. “Steve… be careful. He’s not… like Bruce. He’s not… Just…” He was looking extremely nervous and tense and Steve actually listened to the archer, taking a step back and lowering his hand. But he was as stubborn as blond, that one. “Well, you won’t be killing anybody, pal, not on my watch. No matter who you are.”  
“Did they ever tell you that the serum that… made us the way we are was an attempt at recreating your wonder-tonicum?” Robert asked out of curiosity. He was really interested in that. Steve Rogers nodded. “Yes. Coulson told me when he was briefing me, before we met for the first time.”

“Well, isn’t that nice then.” Robert hummed. under his breath. They were all on the same page then. Nearly. “Thing is, Mr Rogers: You’re the same all the time. While we… run on fuel. Anger for the big guy. He really uses that up extremely fast, nothing to stop him. Anger, fear… the big, feral things. I am… let’s say more human. But the way this situation is at the moment, I don’t see you winning any fights with me, son.” Robert looked down on the carpet and sighed. “Oh well… I guess, this might speed things up a little bit. This is steel, I suppose?” After receiving a nod from Stark, he smiled again, went down on one knee and _punched_ the floor. He could feel the metal bend and break under his fist and when he stood up, there was a hole in the ground and a little bit of blood on his hand. He licked it off. “Different fuel. But… effective.” Almost everyone else in the room flinched, except for Thor and Romanov - Thor because he was probably able to do something similar, Romanov because she was wearing her perfect mask again and was sitting at the edge of the couch almost royally calm, her head lifted up high and her back straight and her entire body ready to jump at any second. Her gaze was fixed on his bird, where else, even though she seemed to keep Robert in the corner of her eye at any given time.

“So. I assume you all _want_ to rescue Betty. I clearly hope so, because this would be embarrassing if not.”

“Well not so fast,” Clint interrupted him. “I see where you’re going with the whole ‘no one can stop me’-thing and all, but I don’t trust _you_ and as long as I don’t hear about that pact from Bruce, we’re not going anywhere.” His voice was shaking and he looked anything but confident, but for some reason he had taken it upon him to be the group’s speaker for now, with Stark clearly too shaken to talk at all and Steve too much of an adversary and too little of an understanding counterpart to be a possibility.  
On the other hand… Clint was the one he might actually speak with. They had a connection, his little bird and him. Even so… Robert sighed. “Little wild one… if I force him up here now, he will not really be able to talk. He needs time. And we need time to find Betty first. I make you a deal: I won’t step away from your side. Brian shows up and you ask me not kill to him, I will think about it.”

“Yeah, well, that’s awfully convenient for you, isn’t it?” Clint’s eyes were dark with distrust and hate. “So you expect us to just help you, to participate in a murder, and hope that what you say is the truth and Bruce will just be _okay_ with it when he wakes up?”

“Oh he won’t be okay with it. You know that. He still… loves him.” Robert closed his eyes because it _hurt_ , it shook the core of his being. Bruce was just such an adorable, sentimental fool. On the other hand… what did that make Robert? _A fool too, I don’t doubt. But a more pragmatic one._ “He will be traumatised. Again. But it is better than letting Betty die at his hands. And if anything happens to her… but well. We’ll need time one way or another.”

Clint was hesitating, clearly, and his eyes went on to Rogers, to Stark, to Thor - and then to Romanov. “I have no idea what he’s done,” the Russian ex-spy said calmly, “but he doesn’t seem to be a good person. Clint, we’ve taken lives before. I can do it, if need be. Quickly, no heart-eating or soul-crushing.” She turned her eyes on Robert and they were as cold as ice and as hard as steel. “Bruce would want us to help Ross’s daughter never mind her father. I’m in for the rescue mission, but you won’t get near your father. Not even close. I will do it if it has to be done. That’s the only deal you’re going to get.” Rogers looked as if he wanted to object, but Clint cut him short. “Tash… don’t…” She smiled darkly. “It’s not one of the lives that’ll show up on my ledger, Clint. He’s not innocent.”

Robert beamed at her, took a step closer and ruffled her hair. “There is a reason you are my second favourite.” She gripped his hand, applied pressure to a certain point and twisted his arm so that he was forced to his knees. This one was feisty. He had always liked that in a woman. “Let me make this perfectly clear,” she whispered in Robert’s ear, “I’m not doing this for you and if you so much as _look_ at my partner in a way he’s not comfortable with, I’ll cut your male parts and see if the Green Guy can actually grow them back.” She let go of him, standing up, cold and deadly and more beautiful than should be possible. Steve looked like he wanted to step in and _do_ something utterly _heroic_ until he caught sight of the amusement on Robert’s face.

“You are still my second favourite.” The pain was there and he massaged it out of his arm, but he hummed under his breath. “By the way: I am afraid I have already looked too much. He is a cute one.” For a second, all eyes flashed at Clint who stood there, stiff, shoulders back, his eyes staring at something no one else could see, possibly just avoiding to look at anyone. “Back to topic, ladies and gentlemen: I get it that no one wants to be in on the killing and no one seems to like me, which is… shocking. I am such a fan. Nr 1 in the IronMan-Cheer-Squad and all.” He made sure that the sarcasm couldn’t be missed. Stark looked like he was going to throw up. “But well. We look for Betty. And when we find her and the maniac who created me, we will see. I still think I will kill him then, but maybe our redheaded girl-scout here will beat me to it. A discussion for another day.”

Tony Stark’s gaze had switched from Robert to Clint and back to Robert, as if he was slowly piecing something together. He had been extraordinarily quiet throughout the discussion, taking it all in (which really wasn’t typical behaviour for someone with an ego as high as his personal tower). “Barton, I always knew you had a crap taste in men. No offense, Romanov. So what. Gollum here shows up and suddenly we’re all in for a rescue mission, just like that? Because he’s sharing a body with our dear friend Sméagol?” He crossed his arms. “I mean, am I the only one who’s bothered by any of this?”

“You’re not.” Rogers crossed his arms and stood beside Stark. He didn’t ask who Sméagol and Gollum were, which spoke for itself. He probably didn’t even care at that moment. He was Captain America. He just wanted to do the _right thing_. Like there ever was such a thing.  
Robert sighed. This was getting on his nerves. Really, why did they have to be such a kindergarten? He felt inclined to pull at Clint’s braids. “You don’t have to be a part of this. I can start looking on my own, I just thought you wanted to rescue the woman Bruce has loved like only someone with a broken heart can love someone. It would make everything easier and I suppose there will be less… _casualties_ this way. But I am not forcing anyone’s hand.” He looked around and huffed. “So. Are we really doing this? Playing Poker? I’ll tell you what I was planning for you to do: Romanov and Rogers: Check out the Asylum. There is probably someone there who can… _talk_ about what has happened, who has rescued my dear father. Stark and I will be roaming through emails and accounts, looking for transfers and other signs. Thor - uh, I don’t know what you usually do, actually. Talk with Dr Selvig? He worked for my father once. Clint - maybe some of your old contacts noticed something. Or you can wait till Bruce is ready to come out and have a chat. But taking in consideration that _someone_ has been really _insensitive_ , I think he’ll like to hide a little bit more.”

Clint pressed his lips together. He looked at his team mates, as if he was waiting for them to make a decision - the thing was, for some reason all eyes were on him. “I’m in,” he finally said, flat. “But I think everyone should chose this one for themselves. This isn’t… Avengers-business, it’s personal. And it damn sure isn’t SHIELD-protocol, just if anyone was wondering.” Natasha lifted her chin and stepped next to him. “I’m in, too.”  
Stark watched them all and then waved a hand. “Can’t we just… exorcise him or something?”

Robert smiled. “Split personality, not a demon. Not even really that. I think the… accident made it more complicated. But I can assure you that holy water will just get me wet.”

“So the good Doctor isn’t the only man sharing a body with my good green friend,” Thor summed it up, finally making the connection, too. Considering that they probably didn’t have shrinks in Asgard, he accepted facts pretty fast. Maybe it was just that he was the brother of the most crazed out person in the entire universe. It might make one pliable. “The son of Odin shall not stay behind while his friends aid a lovely lady, no matter who wears the face of Banner now.”  
“No, this old thing is a crowded place. By the way: I’m supposed to tell you ‘PUNY GOD!’ from the big one. He wants to play, soon.” Robert put his hand in the air to initiate a fist-bump and then laughed, when the contact with Thors fist nearly made him lose his ground. “Easy there. I can take rough, but I don’t particularly enjoy the thought of me flying through that wall.” - “You tell my green friend that he may serve me his best swing, no son of Odin shall ever be defeated by so green an ogre, even if he hath shown courage and honour in our past battles. I long to fight by his side again. Together we shall smite this villain who hath dared to lay his hands on the lovely maiden close to the heart of the dear Doctor.” - “Yeah, well... get your brother to invade earth again and it might happen. Or you two just host a wrestling-event. For charity. Bruce couldn’t complain about that. Back to topic: We have my friend Thor here, the Russian Inquisition, a most precious archer… what about Mr. Humanity and little Humble-Bee?”  
“I certainly don’t know if I like or hate you, Gollum.” - “You are smitten and threatened by my charisma, Stark. It happens. Stop flirting, it’s embarrassing and my heart already belongs to another person.”  
Apparently, the archer had to throw his two cents in the discussion once more. “I can help you with that, Stark. You don’t like him. But right now that doesn’t matter ‘cause we need to help a friend and he’s the only fucking link we have to Bruce. We don’t have to like it. Just… work with it.” Romanov lay one of her hands on Clint’s arm, but he didn’t seem to be calmed by that, actually, he flinched away from her, too. How nice. He would have been annoyed, had it only been him.  
Stark just threw his hands in the air. “Like I could sit by while he was trying to do a decent job. I mean, he just is half the man I am, right? By definition?”  
“No one could be half the man you are, Stark. You’d have to grow up first for that sentence to make any sense whatsoever. Well, that leaves Mr Humanity himself and I will spare you the embarrassment: You’re trying to tell everyone to think it over and how can they trust me… Don’t trust me. I really don’t need your friendship, even though you might be a good opponent at laser-tag -”  
“Oh, we don’t trust you.” Romanov was crossing her arms in front of her chest. “But Clint’s right, we don’t have much of a choice right now and we’re running out of time and out of options. You with me Steve, or do I have to face an entire house of crazy on my own? I can’t promise I won’t shoot anyone if they come close.”  
“Don’t shoot” Robert looked at her and then sighed. “Well… at least be aware of your surroundings, yes? There might be a crowd and there might be one or two people I do care about. And my cousin has a talent to be hit by stray bullets.” Romanov nodded calmly and then she looked at Clint who was still evading her gaze. She looked hurt for a second, but then she just took out her gun and checked it. “Cap? You with me?”  
Rogers was hesitating, but his being raised as a perfect gentleman got the better of him - probably exactly as Natasha had planned it. She was so manipulative. In hindsight, he couldn’t help but sigh over the fact that Bruce had fallen for her tears. Rogers, of course, had to give some orders that were clear to everyone without him saying so, just to make a point of some sort or to reclaim his status as alpha male. Whichever one it was, it was utterly unnecessary. “Okay. Iron Man, Hawkeye, Thor, you don’t let our ‘guest’ out of your eyes, is that understood?”  
“Three guards… a prince, a pretty one and… Stark… I feel so precious.”  
“Don’t, it’s not for _your_ protection,” Rogers felt it necessary to pile on. Robert couldn’t help but roll his eyes. That man… unbelievable. No grasp on sarcasm whatsoever. “Sometimes I think that that serum stole all your humour, Rogers. Smile. It’s not such a rainy day yet. Damsel in distress, evil scientist… it should be a field day for you. But I’ll try to keep the sarcasm down to a minimum, so you won’t be too confused. I’d say let’s roll before the Thornton-Brigade comes down on us with fire and sulfur and righteousness and protocols.”

Romanov nodded, grabbed Rogers on his arm and dragged him with her before he could say anything else. She seemed to be tired of the entire kindergarten-discussion. She didn’t say goodbye to anyone. She didn’t even look at Clint and he didn’t look after her. Trouble in paradise. That wasn’t something, that he approved of. Robert frowned, watching her retreat and then looked at his little bird, who didn’t seem to notice that there was a problem. But well… it was so hard to tell with him sometimes.  
“Hawk-eyed one,” Thor stepped up to Clint, “what do you propose we do whilst the… other doctor” - “Robert, my friend Thor. It is Robert. Or: the Strong One. I really like that.” - “... and the man of iron proceed to their magical devices in order to gather information? Is there a quest we might embark on to aid our noble cause?” He almost looked excited by the thought of finding some use for his hammer. Clint, however, was focussing on Stark. “You’ll be okay, Tony?” - “You’re planning on leaving me alone with Gollum, Legolas? Shame on you. Luckily I still have the One Ring, so yeah. We’re good.” Clint nodded and turned to Thor. “Damn right I’m ‘embarking on a quest’. But you’re not comin’, gotta talk to Selvig, remember? Or… whatever. You’re a big boy. Figure it out yourself.” With that he just turned and left the room.  
“Take care, wild one!” Robert waved a hand at him, even though he probably couldn’t see it any more. Or didn’t want to see. He sighed and scratched his neck. Well. It seemed that he had to redeem himself for something. He couldn’t really….well, yes, actually he could figure it out. He had been like this, since… well. It was Robert’s own fault, as it seemed. He shouldn’t have been that… eager. It might have been a little bit too much a little bit too soon. But that would be alright again. He would make this alright, make amends…  
He started singing, while he was following Stark to the workspace. He would woo his little bird. There really was no chance he wouldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robert is a true romantic. You'll see.

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to comment, subscribe, leave cookies, cuddles, long fiery hate letters or randomly faulty robots.


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